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THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 



A POINT OF LAW 



The Works op David Graham Phillips 



The Worth of a Woman 

Old Wives for New 

Light-Pingered Gentry 

The Second Generation 
The Deluge The Master Rogue 

The Social Secretary Golden Fleece 
The Plum Tree A Woman Ventures 

The Cost The Great God Success 



David Graham Phillips 
THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS 

FOLLOWED BY 

A POINT OF LAW 

A DRAMATIC INCIDENT 




NEW YORK 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 

1908 



F 






TrJif^v .tf CONGRESS f 
COPY A. 



Copyright, 1907, 1908, by 
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 



Published Scpiemher, 1908 



BEFORE THE CURTAIN 

WAS it not a straw in the wind of these times 
that no one of any consequence raised the cry 
of immorality against this play? A few years 
ago, as to the most important and most interesting 
subject in the world, the relations of the sexes, an 
author had to choose between silence and telling those 
distorted truths beside which plain lying seems almost 
white and quite harmless. And as no author could 
afford to be silent on the subject that underlies all 
subjects, our literature, in so far as it attempted to 
deal with the most vital phases of human nature, was 
beneath contempt. The authors who knew they were 
lying sank almost as low as the nasty-nice purveyors 
of fake idealism and candied pruriency who fancied 
they were writing the truth. Now it almost seems 
that the day of lying conscious and unconscious is 
about run. "And ye shall know the truth, and the 
truth shall make you free." 

There are three ways of dealing with the sex rela- 
tions of men and women — two wrong and one right. 

For lack of more accurate names the two wrong 
ways may be called respectively the Anglo-Saxon and 
the Continental. Both are in essence processes of 



vi BEFORE THE CURTAIN 

spicing up and coloring up perfectly innocuous facts 
of nature to make them poisonously attractive to per- 
verted palates. The wishy-washy literature and the 
wishy-washy morality on which it is based are not 
one stage more — or less — rotten than the libertine lit- 
erature and the libertine morality on which it is based. 
So far as degrading effect is concerned, the " pure, 
sweet " story or play, false to nature, false to true mo- 
rality, propagandist of indecent emotions disguised as 
idealism, need yield nothing to the so-called " strong " 
story. Both pander to different forms of the same dis- 
eased craving for the unnatural. Both produce moral 
atrophy. The one tends to encourage the shallow and 
unthinking in ignorance of life and so causes them 
to suffer the merciless penalties of ignorance. The 
other tends to miseducate the shallow and unthinking, 
to give them a ruinously false notion of the delights 
of vice. The Anglo-Saxon " morality " is like a nude 
figure salaciously draped ; the Continental " strength " 
is like a nude figure salaciously distorted. The Anglo- 
Saxon article reeks the stench of disinfectants; the 
Continental reeks the stench of degenerate perfume. 
The Continental shouts " Hypocrisy ! " at the Anglo- 
Saxon; the Anglo-Saxon shouts " Filthiness ! " at the 
Continental. Both are right; they are twin sisters of 
the same horrid mother. And an author of either 
allegiance has to have many a redeeming grace of 
style, of character drawing, of philosophy, to gain him 
tolerance in a clean mind. 



BEFORE THE CURTAIN vii 

There is the third and right way of dealing with 
the sex relations of men and women. That is the way 
of simple candor and naturalness. Treat the sex ques- 
tion as you would any other question. Don't treat it 
reverently; don't treat it rakishly. Treat it naturally. 
Don't insult your intelligence and lower your moral 
tone by thinking about either the decency or the in- 
decency of matters that are familiar, undeniable, and 
unchangeable facts of life. Don't look on woman as 
mere female, but as human being. Remember that 
she has a mind and a heart as well as a body. In a 
sentence, don't join in the prurient clamor of "pu- 
rity" hypocrites and "strong" libertines that exag- 
gerates and distorts the most commonplace, if the most 
important feature of life. Let us try to be as sensible 
about sex as we are trying to be about all the other 
phenomena of the universe in this more enlightened 
day. 

Nothing so sweetens a sin or so delights a sinner 
as getting big-eyed about it and him. Those of us who 
are naughty aren't nearly so naughty as we like to 
think ; nor are those of us who are nice nearly so nice. 
Our virtues and our failings are— perhaps to an un- 
suspected degree— the result of the circumstances in 
which we are placed. The way to improve individuals 
is to improve these circumstances; and the way to 
start at improving the circumstances is by looking hon- 
estly and fearlessly at things as they are. We must 
know our world and ourselves before we can know 



viii BEFORE THE CURTAIN 

what should be kept and what changed. And the be- 
ginning of this wisdom is in seeing sex relations ra- 
tionally. Until that fundamental matter is brought 
under the sway of good common sense, improvement 
in other directions will be slow indeed. Let us stop 
lying — ^to others — to ourselves. 

The " Worth of a Woman " is not a problem; it is a 
love story — an agitated day in the lives of two young 
Americans. Every story illustrates something. This 
story illustrates — But you may read for yourself. 
It was not written for children of whatever age be- 
tween protracted infancy and premature seniHty. It 
was written with the hope of interesting grown peo- 
ple of any age, of either sex, of all conditions. 

It was first played in New York City last February 
at the Madison Square Theater. It was presented by 
Walter N. Lawrence, staged and directed by George 
Foster Piatt. Miss Katherine Grey took the part of 
Diana, made of it a living figure of grace and beauty 
and strength. To her and to Mr. Piatt and Mr. Law- 
rence the author is indebted for suggestions that were 
valuable and for a sympathy that was invaluable. 

"A Point of Law" has been played several times 
by amateurs in various parts of the country. 

D. G. P. 

July, 1908. 



CONTENTS 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

PAGE 

Act I 3 

Act II 36 

Act III 64 

Act IV 95 

A POINT OF LAW 109 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 



PERSONS OF THE PLAY 



Hubert Merivale Of Clifty Farm 

Diana Merivale . His younger daughter, manager of the farm 

Phyllis Dagmar His elder daughter 

Lucius Dagmar Husband of Phyllis 

Julian Burroughs . . *- A young lawyer from the East 
The Rev. Eben Woodruff, D.D., Merivale's life-long friend 

Maggie Salyers Housekeeper 

Billy Man-of-all-work 



Scene — Clifty Farm, in the valley of the Ohio 
Time — A July day 



ACT I 

The library at Cliffy Farm. The walls are ailed book- 
shelves, the furniture aid-fashioned mahogany. 
A large table desk with cigars, cigarettes, writing 
materials; a smaller table to the right with books 
and magasines. In the rear wall, great French 
windozvs thrown wide and revealing a railed and 
columned veranda; it vieivs from an eminence a 
harvest-time landscape of gentle hills and valleys 
with a broad river in the distance. On the ve- 
randa, in a wicker chair under an awning um- 
brella, white, with green lining, sits Hubert 
Merivale, owner of the farm — white hair, smooth- 
shaven, deeply zvrinkled face, strong, rather stern, 
intellectual. He is dressed in white linen and a 
Panama; an ebony cane with a gold knob leans 
against his chair. He is reading and making 
notes at a book-strewn wicker table beside him. 
The door to the right opens and Maggie Salyers, 
the housekeeper, crosses toward the left, carrying 
an armful of cut flowers.. At sight of Mr. Meri- 
vale she halts. 

Scene I. — Merivale — Maggie. 
Maggie. If I was to ask him what day it is, he 
wouldn't know. My, what a thinker! Always at big 

3 



4 THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

serious books that it makes a body headachy to look 

at. But always with the gay band on his Panama, 

and the tie to match — Miss Diana looks out for that. 

[Sees a telegram on the large table.'] " Miss Diana 

Merivale." Probably the one she's so eager about. 

Mr. Merivale! ^,- , . . 

[Merivale does not hear. 

Maggie. Mr. Merivale! 

[Merivale frowns, mutters, sighs like a dis- 
turbed sleeper, resumes his work. 

Maggie. Mr. Merivale ! 

Merivale. Eh ? . . . Ah ? . . . What ? . . . You, Mag- 
gie? Oh, yes. Um — where was I? [Returns to his 
work, saying abstractedly,] My dear child, the first 
law of human intercourse is, " Don't interrupt ! " 
[With a kindly, absent smile.] Your interruption has 
perhaps slain an immortal thought. [Quite absorbed 
again.] Whether or no the soul is immortal, certain 
it is there are immortal thoughts. Perhaps Milton 
and Hugo were right, and some souls, like some 
thoughts, are immortal, others not. 

Maggie. [Holding up the telegram.] Isn't this 
telegram on the table here the one Miss Diana wanted 
as soon as it came? 

Merivale. [Staring at her dazedly.] Yes? . . . 
Eh? . . . Telegram? . . . How came it there? . . . 
Ah! [He rises, confused and ashamed.] Inexcus- 
able! Diana particularly enjoined me! 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 5 

Maggie. Yes, sir — she asked us all to be on the 
lookout. 

Merivale. \Self-reproachfully.'] And Peter brought 
it to me, to know what to do about it — 
Maggie. Peter ought to have come to me. 
Merivale. No — no — it was my fault — entirely my 
fault. I vaguely recall he asked me some question, 
and I — I must have been — not listening. Fm not usu- 
ally so preoccupied. [Maggie smiles.'] But this morn- 
ing — I've come to a most important chapter. The tele- 
gram must go to her at once. 

[Maggie presses an electric button to the left 

of the closed fireplace. 

Merivale. [Walking up and down the veranda.'] 

It's the first time I remember Diana's asking me to 

do anything for her — and I neglect it! She who does 

everything for me, and neglects nothing! 

[Enter by door to left Billy, the man-of-all- 
work, in shirt sleeves and collarless, his 
trousers held up by a broad leather belt. 
He has plainly been toiling and is in no 
very good humor. 

Scene II. — Merivale — Maggie — Billy. 

Billy. [Crossly.] Yes, Mr. Merivale. 

[Merivale, walking up and down the ve- 
randa, muttering to himself, does not 
hear. 



6 THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

Maggie. Billy, saddle a horse and take this to Miss 
Diana — down to the creek farm. 

Billy. I'm busy with the rooms next to Miss 
Diana's — ^those for this here preacher that's coming. 
Maggie. I'll have . Lizzie look after them. 

IShe holds out the telegram, waving it im- 
patiently. Billy advances with reluc- 
tant, hesitating step. 
Billy. Then, there's the hall floor to be polished, 
and — 

Merivale. [Pausing, notes Billy.] Ah — Billy! 
Diana wants that telegram immediately. 

Billy. [With complete change of manner and 
tone.] Oh, if Miss Diana wants it — 

[He takes the telegram and hastens out by 
door to right. 

Scene IH. — Merivale — Maggie. 

Merivale. Inexcusable ! Inexcusable ! 

Maggie. I shouldn't worry, sir. If it's good news, 
it'll be the better to her for the delay. If it's bad 
news, she oughtn't to have it at all. 

Merivale. She didn't tell me what it was, but — 
[smiles'] — I suspect. 

Maggie. [With a nod and knowing smile.'] No 
doubt it's from — him. What a lovely young gentle- 
man Mr. Burroughs is ! So democratic ! 

Merivale. When you've said gentleman, youVe 
implied democratic. 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 7 

Maggie. It ought to be, sir, but somehow it isn't, 
any more. 

JiShe puts the Howers on the table and busies 
herself at rearranging small articles and 
polishing with her apron. 

Merivale. Not in the East, where he comes from. 
But, thank God, out here we are still Americans. 

Maggie. Not all of us. Those that go East to 
school usually come back quite different. 

Merivale. The power of a bad example over the 
weak-minded! . . . [Notes the Howers as she takes 
them up.'] Delightful! 

Maggie. For Dr. Woodruff's room. Miss Diana 
told me to have them cut fresh about the time he was 
due, and to put them there to welcome him, if she 
wasn't back to attend to it herself. 

Merivale. She thinks of everything. 

Maggie. Everything but herself, as Peter often 
says to me and me to Peter. 

Merivale. Everything but herself. And hers is 
the usual reward of self-sacrifice. Those for whom 
she does all take her for granted. 

Maggie. As Peter and I often say, what will be- 
come of us when she's married to Mr. Burroughs and 
off to that East? Of course, Miss Phyllis and her 
husband will be living here. But nobody could take 
her place. 

Merivale. I don't let myself think of it. [Sighs.] 
And January will soon be here. [Sighs again.] But, 



8 THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

Maggie, we mustn't let her see how we feel. The 
least we can do is not to shadow her happiness. She 
is happy, don't you think? 

Maggie. As happy as could be expected, with Mr. 
Burroughs gone back home nearly five weeks now. 

Merivale. Five weeks! I should have said a few 
days. 

Maggie. Naturally you don't miss him as much as 
she does. We all miss him. He's a fine young man, 
if ever there was one. I never thought I'd like an 
Easterner. I didn't altogether like him at first. All 
those Easterners seem to think that, of course, their 
ways are just right, and that because our ways are 
different, we're wrong and queer. 

Merivale. It shouldn't irritate us, Maggie. It's 
only amusing. We are broader than they, and that 
should make us more tolerant. 

Maggie. That's true, Mr. Merivale. I soon saw it 
wasn't he, but his bringing up, that was to blame. 

Merivale. Precisely. He had been what we out 
here'd call badly brought up — more like an English- 
man than an American. But after he'd been among 
us a while — out here in God's country — he showed 
he was one of us beneath. 

Maggie. Indeed he is ! Of course, he ain't good 
enough for Miss Diana. But she's blind to his faults. 
That's always the way with us women. 

Merivale. Fortunately for us men. 

Maggie. Oh, I don't know, Mr. Merivale. There's 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 9 

another side to that. The men have to overlook a 
great deal, don't they now? 

Merivale. ISmiling.^ Not a great deal — but — 
something perhaps. 

Maggie. I wouldn't admit it to Billy, but I have to 
laugh to myself when he says if a man wasn't a fool 
he'd never undertake to support a woman for life 
just for — for a little hugging and kissing and that, 
now and then. 

Merivale. [Absently. '\ Six months until she goes 
— six swift months. 

[Maggie moves toward door to left. Enter 
there Lucius Dagmar, fashionably 
dressed to the point of foppishness for 
morning in the country. Merivale eyes 
him and costume with tolerant, amused 
disapproval. 

Scene IV. — Merivale — Dagmar — ^Maggie. 
Dagmar. [To Maggie.] I just picked up the auto 
with the telescope. It's climbing Cresson Hill. They'll 
be here in a few minutes. 
Maggie. Oh, I must hurry. 

[Exit Maggie hastily by door to left. Dag- 
mar lights a cigarette. 

Scene V. — Merivale — Dagmar. 
Dagmar. [Speaking with a drawling nicety that 
seems to suit his manner and dress.'] How goes the 
great work this morning? 



lo THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

Merivale. [Ignoring Dagmar's remark.'] Dr. 
Woodruff was in the auto with .Phyllis ? 

Dagmar. I've never seen him, you know. But I 
fancy it was he. White-haired, clerical-looking party 
— white whiskers — round collar — ^black clothes — all 
that. [Merivale scats himself at his work again.] 
What were Billy and Maggie shouting about? 

Merivale. [Absently.] Telegram for Diana. 

Dagmar. Oh, the telegram. 

Merivale. I don't knom from whom, but — 
[Smiles, leans back in his chair. 

Dagmar. So, he's taken to the telegraph, eh? The 
very frenzy of love. And he an Easterner — and a 
Bostonian — and a Burroughs — of the Boston Bur- 
roughses. 

Merivale. The description hardly suggests — Ju- 
lian. 

Dagmar. Nevertheless, he does come of a family 
of icebergs stranded in Back Bay. H we knew him 
well, we'd find the chill all right, all right — you can 
gamble on that. 

Merivale. [Somewhat sharply.] We do know 
him. 

Dagmar. [Soothingly.] Not Phyllis and I. You'll 
remember we got back from Europe only two days 
before he left. 

Merivale. He may have felt constrained with you. 
But I assure you he is frank — ardent — natural. 

Dagmar. [Sitting at ease.] He may have made 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN ii 

himself seem all that, just to get solid with you and 
Diana. But— 

Merivale. Julian is no hypocrite, Lucius. 

Dagmar. I didn't mean to say he is. At the same 
time, when a man's in love— he believes he believes a 
lot of things. 

Merivale. Julian detests sham, and laughs at pre- 
tense. 

Dagmar. Bore into him— and you'll find a Bur- 
roughs of Boston. And why not? Where's the 
harm? 

Merivale. You don't know the strength of his 
mind. 

[Dagmar laughs, rises, lounges up and down. 

Dagmar. He may have honestly believed he'd been 
broadened. But I'm speaking of instincts— prejudices, 
if you please— that a man inherits— that begin to be 
nourished at his mother's breast. YouVe some of 
those prejudices yourself, sir. 

Merivale. Not the kind they have in the East. 

Dagmar. Perhaps not. ... I confess I don't 
wildly fancy those fashionable Eastern upper-class 
people. They strike me as rather— funny— bunch of 
goldfish swimming round in their little tank and im- 
agining it's the universe. However — I'm a bit of a 
snob— and as I don't have to associate with the Bur- 
roughses, this alliance with them — 

Merivale. Eh? Still talking Burroughses? I 
don't know anything about them. I'm content with 



12 THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

Julian, and that's sufficient. But here a man isn't a 
symbol of family or pocketbook. 
Woodruff. [Outside.'] Bertie ! 

[Enter Dr. Woodruff on veranda to left. 
He looks the successful, prosperous cler- 
gyman, Merivale risesj advances with 
boyish eagerness. 

Scene VI. — Merivale — Dagmar — Woodruff. 

Merivale. Ben ! 

Woodruff. Hubert! Not the least changed by 
these eight years ! Yes — ^the bright band on your hat, 
and the bright tie to show that your heart is young 
and gay. 

[Merivale and Woodruff shake hands again 
and again. 
Merivale. [Greatly moved.] Ben — welcome! . . . 
My son-in-law, Dagmar — an acquisition of two years 
ago. 

Woodruff. [Shaking hands with Dagmar.] Of 
the Chicago Dagmars, I believe? 

Dagmar. Joel Dagmar was my father — ^but no 
doubt you and Phyllis talked all that over, on the way 
from the station. She's great on family trees. Did 
you have a pleasant journey from Louisville? 
Woodruff. A rain providentially laid the dust. 

[Enter from veranda Phyllis, a fashionable, 
cynically good-humored woman of thirty. 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 13 



Scene VII. — Merivale — Dagmar — Woodruff — 
Phyllis. 

Merivale. [In raillery.'] Still imagining the Al- 
mighty looks after you especially. 

Woodruff. IGood-naturedly.] Not a sparrow falls 
to the ground without His notice, says the Bible. 

Phyllis. [From the center of the room where 
Dagmar is helping her off with her dust coat.] But it 
doesn't say either that He causes the sparrow to fall 
or that He stops its falling. 

Woodruff. [Laughing heartily and shaking his head 
at her.] I came to rest and to refresh myself in the 
friendship of my old pal here, not to engage in theo- 
logical disputation. [Looks out over the landscape.] 
This superb place ! Like the garden farms of the 
old world. What cultivation ! What taste ! Great 
changes here in eight years, my friend. 

Merivale. In five years — less than five. At lunch 
you'll see the architect of it all. 

Woodruff. Ah — that wonderful daughter — your 
Diana — our Diana, for I feel I have a share in her. 
Mrs. Dagmar tells me she's to be married. [Merivale 
nods slowly, sighs.] And only yesterday, it seems to 
me, I had her on my knee, teaching her to call me 
Uncle Ben. Married ! Phyllis tells me the young man 
is of the Boston Burroughses — a fine family — in the 
front rank of our true aristocracy. 

Merivale. [Dryly.] That seems to have done him 



14 THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

an unusually small amount of harm — though Dagmat 

here has just been protesting the contrary. But I 

trust Diana's judgment. 
Woodruff. [Surveying the landscape.'] That lake 

must be new. It doesn't look so, but I can't recall a 

lake. 

Merivale. It was Diana's idea — one of her first big 

improvements. She changed the course of the creek, 

put a dam at the edge of the valley — 

[The two link arms and go out on the ve^ 
randa, Merivale talking and using his 
cane to point our various features in the 
landscape. Exeunt left. Phyllis crosses 
to table desk at left, busies herself with 
contents of shopping bag. 

Scene VIII. — Dagmar — Phyllis. 

Phyllis. [Pausing abruptly.] Di get her tele- 
gram? 

Dagmar. Billy took it to her. What's all this ex- 
citement about? What's in the telegram? 

Phyllis. I wish I knew. 

Dagmar. No trouble between her and him? 

Phyllis. None that / know of. 

Dagmar. I guess there isn't. Only this morning I 
saw a letter in the mail — for her — Boston postmark. 
A fat letter — ^three two-cent stamps. He's daft about 
her — if letters mean anything. 

Phyllis. But they don't. 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 15 

Dagmar. That's a fact. The more a man — or a 
woman — protests — especially on paper — the less it 
means. Now I — 

Phyllis. You never write at all. 

Dagmar. Exactly. And it's setting a good example, 
too. HI had my way, the cheapest stamp would cost 
a quarter. Then people wouldn't write unless they 
had at least a little something to say. . . . It's queer 
none of Julian's family has written — gad, thafs what's 
been on your mind the last few weeks. 

Phyllis. Really ? 

Dagmar. But as long as your father doesn't 
mind — 

Phyllis. lCrossly.'\ Conventionalities never enter 
his head. 

Dagmar. Or Di's. 

Phyllis. Or Di's. lAngrily.'] The way father's 
brought her up! 

Dagmar. Pretty good work, I say. She's made 
the whole place over — and it pays like a gold mine — 
mill, dairies, gardens, fancy chickens, horses, sheep, 
cattle — God knows what and what not. I never saw 
a woman like her. And so young, too. And always 
light-hearted. It'd be frightful if that chap . . . You 
know how it is with young fellows. And as long as 
the wedding is vague — 

Phyllis. It's fixed for January. 

Dagmar. At his age January might look distant 
and hazy from June. And she's in love with him — 



l6 THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

really in love. It's rarely a woman's in love with the 
man she's marrying. 

Phyllis. Very rarely. 

Dagmar. Nothing personal? [Phyllis nods and 
laughs.'] No matter. You are, now ... To resume — 
No, usually a woman — unless she's an out and out hard 
one — likes the man — more or less. But she's thinking 
about what he can do for her — substantial things — 
precious little about him. 

Phyllis. I wish it were so with Di. 

Dagmar. Rubbish ! 

[Woodruff and Merivale appear again on 
the veranda from left. 

Phyllis. Take the old doctor away to his room. 
I've got something to say to father. 
Dagmar. What room's Di giving him? 
Phyllis. The suite over the parlor. 
Dagmar. Oh, the rooms Burroughs had. 

[Woodruff and Merivale come into the room 
at window left center. 

Scene IX. — Dagmar — Phyllis — Woodruff — 
Merivale. 

Woodruff. {To Phyllis.] I'm impatient to see 
Diana. 

Dagmar. [Breaking in.] She's the real thing. Her 
father there's brought her up — and a smashing good 
job he's made of it. 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 17 

Merivale. I've brought her up like the Persian 
youth, Ben. 

Woodruff. " To ride, to shoot, to speak the truth." 
You see I've not entirely forgotten my Xenophon. A 
real education — to ride, to shoot — to speak the truth ! 

Dagmar. That's Di. Straight as a sapling. 

Phyllis. Perhaps the doctor would like to go to 
him room. 

Dagmar. I'll show you, doctor — if you happen to 
want to trim up a bit before lunch. 

Woodruff. Certainly, certainly. 

Merivale. I'll go with him, Lucius. 

Phyllis. Please stop here, father. You don't mind 
— do you, doctor? 

Woodruff. Pray don't make a guest of me. 

Dagmar. Come, doctor. 

Woodruff. You'll excuse me, Mrs. Dagmar? 

Phyllis. Phyllis. 

Woodruff. Phyllis ! Thank you. I appreciate that. 

[Exit Woodruff and Dagmar to right. 

Scene X. — Phyllis — Merivale. 

Merivale. Well, Phyllis? 

Phyllis. Sit down, father, please. I want to talk 
with you about Julian. 

Merivale. You're barking up the wrong tree. Go 
to Di. She's the authority on that subject. 

Phyllis. When Lucius and I got back from Europe 



i8 THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

two days before Julian left — we found he'd been here, 
here in this house — nearly two months. 

Merivale. Bless me — so long as that? . . . Yes, it 
must have been. But I saw little of him. He was 
occupied, and so was I. Do you know, Phyllis, until 
they came and told me, three days before he left, I 
never suspected? 

Phyllis. [Lawgfetng.] Incredible ! . . . \SeY\ous 
and businesslike.'] Now, father, you'd know — if you 
weren't so busy with the past — ^love and marriage no 
longer go handcuffed together. 

Merivale. Handcuffed ! I'll never cease regretting 
that I was overpersuaded by your aunt into letting you 
go to that fashionable New York school. Ah, my 
daughter, bitter will be the afternoon and evening of 
your life if you let that veneer eat into you. It will 
destroy your heart. Handcuffed! 

Phyllis. Linked then. Love is a sentiment — mar- 
riage a business. Love's a personal matter. Marriage 
is a matter of family, position — prospects, pocketbook 
— pride, all sorts of things. 

Merivale. Sordid. Sordid. 

Phyllis. But highly important. Yet you've been 
treating this marriage as if it were a personal matter, 
only Diana's affair. And — ^you've been letting Julian 
treat it the same way. 

Merivale. It is personal. 

Phyllis. In a sense, yes. But how about Julian's 
family ? 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 



19 



Merivale. [Carelessly.'} I don't understand. Some 
of your muddy worldliness, I suppose. 

Phyllis. Not at all, father. You've not heard from 
Julian's people. 

Merivale. Well, what of that? They'll get round 
to it. Everybody isn't as energetic about trifles as you 
are, Phyllis, I can sympathize with anyone's not 
writing letters. 

Phyllis. Don't you know why you haven't heard? 

Merivale. [Indifferent.'] No, and I don't care. 
Julian's family doesn't greatly interest me. I know 
him, and he's sound. That's enough. 

Phyllis. [Impatiently.] How do you know he's 
sound? You met him — just happened to meet him — 
when he came out here about that railroad right of 
way. You knew nothing then of him, or his people. 
Yet you invited him to visit here. 

Merivale. Why not? 

Phyllis. But remember his people. What did they 
think when he went back home, and told them about 
his visit — In this house two months and Diana un- 
chaperoned. 

Merivale. [Amused.] Diana — chaperon. 

Phyllis. Oh, I know Di needs no chaperon, still — 

Merivale. [Sternly.] My dear Phyllis, nothing, 
nothing could be so bad as the spy system and its 
degradation of womanhood. I've brought Diana up 
with the only chaperon a woman could accept — ^the 
chaperon of her own self-respect. 



20 THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

Phyllis. That's true, father. I don't disagree with 
you. My own conventionality's only one skin deep. 
But with Julian here Di ought to have had a chaperon. 

Merivale. If you want to make a spirited woman 
indiscreet, watch her. 

Phyllis. A woman in love, or a man, either, for 
that matter, is a woman or man in need of watching. 
I've been there. I know. 

Merivale. I'll concede you may have needed a 
chaperon. You were brought up by your Aunt Althea, 
and her idea of her sex is grossly physical. That a 
man has but one use for a woman. 

Phyllis. Aunt Althea is a shrewd, sensible person. 

Merivale. The men seeking to possess as cheaply 
as possible, the women striving to sell as dearly as 
possible. 

Phyllis. Well, isn't it so? Isn't that the way of 
the world? 

Merivale. I'll listen to no more of this. I'm glad 
to say Diana's been brought up to think and judge and 
decide for herself. 

Phyllis. But I'm not talking of Diana. I'm talk- 
ing of Julian's idea of her — Julian's and his people's. 

Merivale. You're trailing the serpent of worldli- 
ness over your sister's idyll. Look at those fair 
reaches, Phyllis, and be ashamed. The girl who cre- 
ated that beauty and prosperity could not be misjudged 
by any man! 

Phyllis. No, not while he was here. Not as far 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 



21 



as he is capable of appreciating her— he bred in 
worldliness — in Boston upper-class snobbishness — a 
very young man too. Father, you don't know men- 
out in the world. And — 
Merivale. No more, no more. 

[Merivale moves to go, 
Phyllis. He's been gone iive weeks and not a 
word from his family. No explanation or apology 
from him— no explanation. Five— weeks. [Merivale 
pauses.'] That can mean only one thing. His family 
at least, and possibly he too, now that he's back there 
with them — they misunderstand us, misunderstand 
our Di. 

[Merivale walks up and down, reiiecting; 
then he turns abruptly upon Phyllis. 

Merivale. I cannot be guilty of the impertinence 
of interfering. 

Phyllis. I'm thinking of her; it's because I love 
her that I'm pleading with you. I like and admire 
him as much as you do— believe he can make Di 
happy. But— oh, father ! A man brought up as he's 
been couldn't understand us. With the Easterners of 
his set, conventionality is god. 

Merivale. Talk with her about it. 

Phyllis. Of course I shall. But I want you to 
realize too— and act. Father, you owe it to her to 
guard her against her love-blindness. I'm thinking of 
her happiness. It's wrapped up in him. 

lA pause, Merivale reiiecting. 



22 THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

Merivale. Perhaps our ways have tempted Julian 
into too great indifference to formalities. 

Phyllis. And she so frank — so trusting — so in 
love — and showing it ! 
Merivale. Beautiful ! 

Phyllis. Yes — beautiful — ^but — Oh, if she only 
weren't in love with him! It's dangerous — terribly 
dangerous — when the woman's in love — really in love 
— with the man she wants to marry. It's so hard for 
her to see and do the prudent things that are necessary. 
Merivale. How low ! 

Phyllis. But how true! Where's the man who 
isn't tempted to undervalue what's securely his? The 
safe rule for the woman is to keep the man guessing 
and grasping. Uncertainty ! — charming uncertainty ! 
Merivale. For the shallow. 

Phyllis. We were talking of the shallow — of hu- 
man beings. 

Merivale. We were talking of Diana. 
Phyllis. Of Julian, rather. Julian and his family. 
Merivale. [Reflecting.'] His family — yes, perhaps. 
I'll see, I'll see. Diana's happiness — I'll see. 

[Feels for his hat, looks helplessly round. 
Phyllis [Laughing.] Here it is. 

[She gives him his Panama and a caress at 
the same time. Exit Merivale, left. 
Phyllis goes to table desk, sits prepar- 
ing to write a note. Enter Dagmar^ 
right. 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 



Scene XL — Phyllis — Dagmar. 



23 



Dagmar. Pleasant old parson, your friend Wood- 
ruff. Got a streak of fun in him. Well, how did you 
make out? 

Phyllis. ICarelessly.'] Oh, everything's all right. 

Dagmar. I thought so. Some day you'll learn 
there's nothing in this fretting like a hen on eggs. 
We mustn't take ourselves too seriously — we little nits 
on the whirling orange. When we do we're ridicu- 
lous. . . . Where are those cigarettes ? [Sees them on 
desk at left among small parcels put there by Phyl- 
lis.] Oh, yes. 

[Enter Diana from veranda, right, A slen- 
der, graceful girl, quick of eye and move- 
ment, with great physical charm, and 
irradiating open-air freedom and natural- 
ness. She wears divided riding skirt, and 
is without hat. 

Scene XII. — Phyllis — Dagmar — Diana. 

Diana. Hello, Phyl. 'Lo, Lucius. 

Dagmar. 'Lo, Di. 

Phyllis. [Without looking «/>.] Get your tele- 
gram? 

Diana. Hours ago. I telephoned to town from the 
granaries and had it repeated to me. How long till 
lunch ? 

3 



24 THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

Phyllis. Half an hour, perhaps. 

[Dagmar groans, 

Diana. Heavens! Fm starved. 

Billy. [Outside, right.'\ Do you want your horse 
again to-day, Miss Diana? 

Diana. I'll let you know. Take him to the stable 
for me now, please. 

Billy. All right. Miss Diana. 

[Diana goes to sofa, right, and flings herself 
carelessly upon it. 

Diana. My, but I'm tired. I've been in the saddle 
since six. Lucius, those creek bottoms are going to 
yield eighty bushels to the acre — eighty at least. 

Dagmar. [Joining her.'] You don't say! Most 
exciting. Still, it doesn't begin to account for your 
spirits. There's a limit to the amount of joy over 
eighty bushels to the acre. You're miles beyond that 
limit. 

Diana. Really ? 

Phyllis. [At desk, writing.] You've even for- 
gotten to ask after your beloved Dr. Woodruff — ^your 
Uncle Ben, as you call him. 

Diana. You caught me there. [Radiantly.] 
Well — ^Julian's coming! 

[Phyllis startles, shows delight. 

Dagmar. When ? 

Diana. Was ever anybody so curious? 

Dagmar. Not many. I've no business of my own, 
so I give all my attention to other people's. . . . 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 25 

When? [Diana laughingly shakes her head.'] Don't 
tease me when I'm hungry. How you do hate to tell 
anything. You're most unfeminine. Close-mouthed — 
no affectations — truthful. Most unfeminine. 

Diana. [Glancing at a book.] I? 

Dagmar. No, to be honest. And you act so that 
one'd almost believe you really liked being a woman. 

Diana. I do. 

Dagmar. Unheard of! 

Diana. Glad and proud. 

Dagmar. What an eccentric ! Full of surprises. 

Diana. Thanks. I'd hate to be — like this sort of 
book — large print — soon read and forgotten. 

Dagmar. You're an everlasting continued-in-our- 
next, with a surprise at the end of each chapter. 
People think they know you well, when all of a sud- 
den — Bang ! 

Diana. But I'm terribly soft where I care. 

Dagmar. Yes — [After rejecting.] and no. Well, 
be happy while you're young. Only — Let him do 
the loving — most of it. He's quite willing — quite. 

[Phyllis pauses in her writing. 

Diana. Equal shares — that's my idea. 

Dagmar. Generous,, but not practical. Keep cool. 
Keep sober, 

Diana. And Julian? 

Dagmar. Oh, the man's a different matter. 

Diana. Not a bit of it. 

Phyllis. It's the way of the world. 



26 THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

Diana. [Absently.'] Not my way — and not Ju- 
lian's. 

[Phyllis makes an impatient gesture, re- 
sumes writing. 

Dagmar. What a lot of trouble's waiting for you 
when you find him out ! [Looks at her quizzically, af- 
fectionately, shakes his head.] How are you going 
to stand it? 

Diana. Stand what? 

Dagmar. Being cooped up in a city — where no- 
body is ever truthful or natural. I can't think of you 
except as ranging freely — at a gallop — roads — fences 
— fields — like a — a — Valkyr. How'll you stand Bos- 
ton? 

Diana. [Inattentive.'] I don't know. 

Dagmar. And those iceberg relatives ! He's the 
only person from his particular part of the Arctic re- 
gions I ever took to. I don't envy you your fashion- 
able relatives. 

[Phyllis pauses in her writing, listens with- 
out turning. 

Diana. [Half absently.] I never think of them — 
[Smiling.] And I suppose they return the compli- 
ment. 

Diana. [Dreamily.] I never think of Julian as 
related to anybody — but as just — himself. 

Dagmar. [Gently.] Mysterious stranger — ^kind of 
Lohengrin — or fairy tale Knight-from-Nowhere. 

Diana. [Laughing softly.] Something like that. 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 



27 



Dagmar. Um — Um — What a — what a Di you are ! 
[Flower pots falling front the balcony crash 
outside the veranda rail. 
Dagmar. Jumping Jehoshaphat! 

[Dagmar and Phyllis rise. Diana rushes 
out to veranda rail and looks up. 
Diana. What is it? What's the matter? 
Billy. [Above.'] I knocked *em over, Miss Diana. 
I'm sorry. 

Diana. Oh! Father's pet heliotropes! You must 
get new pots at once. 
Billy. They ain't any. 

Diana. Yes, there are. I'll show you "where. 
Come down — ^by the balcony stairs. 

[Exit Diana on veranda, right. 

Scene XIII. — Dagmar — Phyllis. 
Dagmar. What a shock ! I feel as if they'd fallen 
on my head. 

Phyllis. Please leave — ^pretty soon. I want to be 
alone with Di. 

Dagmar. Take care, old girl. Go mighty easy 
with her. She's gentle and sweet, but — 

[Diana reappears. 

Scene XIV. — Dagmar — Phyllis — Diana. 
Diana. [To Billy, outside.^ There you are — and 
please repot them right away. [Reenters room.] No 
damage. 



28 THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

Dagmar. Any signs of lunch? 

Phyllis. Why, you had a late breakfast. Don't 
you ever think of anything but eating? 

Dagmar. Not if I can help it. Of course, we're 
going to have chicken. They always do in this neck 
o* the woods when the preacher comes, don't they? 
Chicken with gravy — not sauce, but gravy. 

Diana. I'm starving, too. Do stop talking about 
it. Why not find out when lunch'll be ready? 

Dagmar. I don't dare go. I'd make a dash and 
tear it off the stove. 

Phyllis. {With a meaning look at Dagmar.] 
Lucius, please go and hurry things up. The doctor, 
too, must be hungry after his journey. 

Dagmar. All right, Phyl. {Pauses at veranda, 
sniMng.'] Talk about your zephyrs from perfumed 
gardens — ^this one comes from the kitchen ! 

{Exit Dagmar, left. 

Scene XV. — Phyllis — Diana. 

Diana. How's Uncle Ben looking? 

Phyllis. {Writing.'] About the same. I can't im- 
agine what you and father see in him. 

Diana. A good heart. 

Phyllis. The world's full of them. All well-fed 
people have good hearts. 

Diana. Not what I mean by a good heart. I used 
to admire brains more than an3rthing. But latterly 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 29 

it seems to me a good heart is the finest thing in the 
world— and the rarest. And Uncle Ben has that. I'd 
trust him, next to father, as I'd trust no one else in 
the world. 

Phyllis. [Indifferently.'] And Julian? 

Diana. [Absetitly.'] I wonder why it is, no mat- 
ter how absolutely a woman trusts the man she loves, 
there's always the suggestion of a possibility of a shade 
of a — a — tiny misgiving. 

Phyllis. [Turns in chair, looks at Diana.] You 
distrust Julian? 

Diana. iSmiling.'] Distrust? No, indeed! But 
I've too much at stake in him not to have a flutter 
now and then. 

Phyllis. A woman, especially a woman who's 
physically attractive, does well to distrust the man 
who loves her. Before marriage his love's little more 
than passion. Real love doesn't begin to build till 
after that storm has calmed. 

Diana. And then maybe it'd build, and maybe it 
wouldn't. IReiiectively.'] No— I'd not marry with- 
out being sure— sure my love was real- and his, 
too. 

Phyllis. Then you'll never marry. 

Diana. How cheap you hold men and women! 

Phyllis. It's a cheap world. So — Pretend to 
trust him— profess to trust him— but don't really trust 
till you've got him tied. 

Diana. Tied! 



30 THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

Phyllis. Tied. Then — if you don't like your bar- 
gain — There's nothing permanent in the marriage 
ceremony. 

Diana. Except the vows. 

Phyllis. Mere form, mere convention. 

Diana. {Dreamily.'] When I promise to "love, 
honor, and cherish until death do us part," Fll mean 
it, just as I mean any other promise I make. Yes, 
Julian and I'll mean it. 

[Phyllis gazes tenderly at her sister, then 
goes over and leans on the hack of the 
sofa, toward her. 

Phyllis. Di. 

Diana. Yes, dear. 

Phyllis. Is Julian coming — soon? 

Diana. To-day — this afternoon. 

Phyllis. I'm so glad! When he comes — 

\_A pause, 

Diana. Yes, Phyl? 

Phyllis. [Half laughing — half serious.] You're 
so in love! What a pity! Really. I mean it. Di, 
he's very, very worth while — in every way. You must 
— must — be — a little sensible. 

Diana. {Amused.] In what way? 

Phyllis. Don't be too frank. Don't make him so 
pleased with himself that he'll grow careless about 
pleasing you. Men are vain — easily spoiled. [Diana 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 31 

looks amused disdain.'] Remember, he has the weak- 
nesses of men as well as the strength. 

Diana. Oh, he's not perfect, thank Heaven. I'd 
detest a man that was. 

Phyllis. You resent interference in your affairs, 
and you're right. But, Di, you'll not take it wrong 
if I say something? 

Diana. Nothing against Julian. 

Phyllis. It's not against him. It's— Isn't it 
strange his people don't write? 

Diana. I've not thought about it. 

Phyllis. I understand that in you. But think! 
Five weeks, and neither of his parents, none of his 
people has written. 

Diana. No doubt there's some good reason. It 
amounts to nothing. 

Phyllis. It means they don't approve. 

Diana. Perhaps. What of it? 

Phyllis. His set there in the East— his people— 
they'd look on his engagement to an Indiana farmer's 
daughter as if it were to a bushwoman in the bush. 
If you were enormously rich — 

Diana. [Interrupting.'] Granted they don't ap- 
prove—still, what of it? That doesn't really concern 
Julian and me. 

Phyllis. But it does, dear. Their not writing is 
the most — pointed — rudeness. His not apologizing — 
Isn't that — disrespectful — to you? — [Diana 
shrugs.] — to father? [Diana looks serious.] 



32 THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

Diana. [After reflecting.'] Not at all. li they're 
opposing, he's ashamed of them, ashamed to have 
father and me know about them. 

Phyllis. [Kissing her.'] What a loyal, generous 
girl you are! No wonder he loves you — and he does 
love you. But Di, it's as a man loves before mar- 
riage. [Diana makes emphatic protest.] Listen, dear. 
His family's not writing and he's not apologizing — 
I'm afraid he's gotten away off there in his Eastern 
conventional home — with his mother subtly working 
on him — and his passion cooled by distance and ab- 
sence — and — 

Diana, {Gentle hut £rm.] It's useless for you to 
say those things to me, Phyl. Perfectly useless. We 
love each other, he and I. 

Phyllis. I know. I know. But I don't want you 
to lose him. And when he comes, you must — 

Diana. [Laughing.] Lose him? Why, if he felt 
as you picture, I'd wish to lose him. I'd never have 
had his love, but only passion — only a passionate im- 
pulse. 

Phyllis. Oh, Di! That "only"— that "passion- 
ate impulse" — it's the way we women get our hus- 
bands. 

Diana. Not I ! The man I marry will not be 
trapped. He must want me — all of me. Not what 
any woman could give him — but what's really myself 
— what he could get from no other. The man I marry 
will want a woman, not merely a female. 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 33 

Phyllis. Diana! Diana! You can't change hu- 
man nature — man nature. 

Diana. [Confidently.'] You're wrong, Phyl, you're 
wrong. It's not so with Julian. He loves me — me, I 
tell you. . . . Why try to poison my heart? You 
can't. It's his, all his — ^just as his is mine. 

Phyllis. [Heatedly.'] What I say is true of all 
men — true of Julian. And you couldn't blame him for 
being just human. 

Diana. [Passionately.] You can't understand m^. 
We love. We trust. Love means trust. 

Phyllis. [Angrily.] The love that means trust 
doesn't lead to marriage — not for women. 

Diana. Phyl ! I'm ashamed of you ! 

Phyllis. [Furious.] Very well. But if you were 
to trust your Julian, he'd never make you his wife. 

Diana. [Proudly.] I do trust him. I am his 
wife! 

Phyllis. [Scornfully.] Lover's talk! Why — 
[She pauses, notes Diana's Hushed, earnest face.] 
You mean — [Half pleased, half reproachful.] — 
Oh, Di — you haven't gone and married him secretly? 
[Diana startles, betrays great confusion.] No won- 
der you talked so confidently ! [Laughs.] You im- 
petuous, willful — 

Diana. [Confused and with an effort.] I — I — 
didn't mean — that. 

Phyllis. [Casing at her with a slow change from 
wonder to alarm, to fear.] Di ! . . . [Breathlessly, in 



34 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 



horror.'] You've — given yourself to him! Oh, Di! — 
You ! ... It can't be ! It can't. Not you ! 

Diana. [Haughtily.'] Keep off! My soul's my 
own! 

Phyllis. My poor Diana! What have you done! 
What have you done! My poor — poor — 

Diana. [Sharply.] Phyllis ! — 

Phyllis. [Rushing toward her.] You infatuated 
girl ! Come to your senses ! Can't you see — 

[A musical hell is heard, left. Enter Wood- 
ruff, right. 

Diana. [Intensely to Phyllis.] It's my secret! 
Don't forget that ! Mine ! 

Scene XVT. — Phyllis — Diana — Woodruff. 

Woodruff. A pleasant, cheerful sound — one of the 
cheerfulest in the world — that bell. . . . Ah, this is 
Diana! [Takes both her hands.] Do you realize it 
is eight years — eight — since I saw you? [Holds her 
by her hands at arms' length, looks into her face.] 
Still those honest, fearless eyes. . . . (Diana shrinks 
and trembles.] I embarrass you. 

Phyllis. [To cover Diana's confusion.] Such 
flattery would startle one far less shy than our Di, 
doctor. 

Woodruff. Every promise of eight years ago re- 
deemed, more than redeemed. 

Diana. [Mistress of herself again, and smiling af- 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 35 

fecHonately at him.] You overwhelm me, Uncle Ben ! 
— ^you see I've not forgotten my name for you in the 
eight years. I am glad — so glad — you're here. [The 
bell rings again.'] But, I must go to my room a mo- 
ment. ITo Phyllis.] Please make my excuses to 
father for being late. And — remember what I said, 
Phyl. Remember ! 

[Exit Diana by door to right. Enter by ve- 
randa right and left Dagmar a^id Meri- 
VALE. A murmur of conversation as they 
move toward door to left. The bell heard 
again. 



Curtain. 



ACT II 

The veranda. Two window doors of the house seen at 
left; several large columns and rail, at hack; beau- 
tiful Indiana countryside, beyond. Wicker table, 
chairs, and sofa. Discovered — Dr. Woodruff, 
looking at landscape through telescope; Phyllis, 
at left of table in center of veranda, absorbed in 
thought. Enter Dagmar from extension of ve- 
randa to left. 

Scene I. — ^Woodruff — Dagmar — Phyllis. 

Woodruff. This magnificent view! I can scarcely 
takes my eyes off it. And through the telescope — 

\He makes a gesture to indicate that he has 
no words to express it. 

Dagmar. The telescope's all right, but you should 
see it through a highball. Oh, I beg pardon, I scan- 
dalize you. 

Woodruff. [With rather a strained smile.'] Not 
at all, not at all. My black clothes are not a mourn- 
ing for a lost sense of humor. 

Dagmar. [Looking at his watch.} Phyl — ^you, 
Phyl! 

36 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 



37 



Phyllis. [Springing up.'] I've done my half hour. 

Dagmar. Twelve minutes. 

Woodruff. I don't understand. 

Phyllis. Lucius and I have agreed to walk five 
miles a day, and not to sit for at least half an hour 
after each meal. He wants to keep his waist, and I 
want to avoid hips. 

Woodruff. [Sitting on sofa, right.'] Very sensible 
rules. 

Dagmar. Phyl's threatening to renege. She talks 
of getting a masseuse down from Chicago. If she 
does, I think I'll have the lady make a few passes at 
my scalp. The way I've been moulting lately is some- 
thing fierce. What's the good of a waistline if I'm 

to get bald? ^^ 

[Phyllis stts. 

Phyllis. The doctor will think we live on a very 
low, material plane. 

Dagmar. Don't we? He might as well have the 
truth first as last. I always explain to people just 
what I am, at the set out. Then — no unpleasant sur- 
prises. ^^ 

[Dagmar stts. 

Woodruff. Why, you're sitting, both of you. 

[Both spring up, laughing. 

Dagmar. My waistline! 

Woodruff. No, my young friends, you hardly do 
me justice. I try to avoid narrowness of every kind. 
The only thing I'm intolerant of is intolerance. 

Dagmar. That's the talk ! My creed exactly. 



38 THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

That's why I got after Phyl during the little discussion 
at lunch — when she jumped on Diana for expressing 
a few romantic notions about things in general — love 
and life and all that. Let the young girls have their 
sentimental dreams, I say. They're soon over, and no 
harm done. 

Woodruff. I must admit, Diana's views struck me 
as sensible, practical. I think she's altogether right 
about lies and shams. 

Phyllis. Now, doctor! You know very well that 
this world was made for men. And Di should realize 
it. Why, we women have to be liars in order to live. 

Woodruff. As Diana would say, in order to live 
among liars; not in order to — live I 

Phyllis. One likes to be well thought of by the 
people the world thinks well of. That's what / call 
living. 

Dagmar. Damn it, Phyl — I beg pardon, doctor — 
Di's got a right to other views. She's even got a 
right to her own sort of life. It's her life, ain't it? 

Woodruff. [Casing with enthusiasm at the view 
of the farm.'} And a fine, noble sort it is. 

Phyllis. [With energy.'] I say candidly, it's a 
crime to encourage a girl in any liberal ideas whatever 
until she's married. You can never tell where a lib- 
eral idea will lead — even one that's apparently harm- 
less. 

Dagmar. Truthfulness — a liberal idea? 

Phyllis. Indeed it is. Men — some of them — can 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 



39 



perhaps afford to be themselves in this world. But not 
women. No woman. [Crosses to Woodruff.] Please 
don't forget that, doctor, in talking with my young 
sister. 

Woodruff. \_Rising.'] My dear Phyllis, I see no 
crime in encouraging anyone to be frank — truthful — 
brave. Especially a girl about to be married. If you 
could know the miseries — the horrors — that often — too 
often — come through falsehoods in love and in mar- 
riage ! At luncheon I had several instances on the tip 
of my tongue. But I refrained. 

Phyllis. [Dryly.] I'm glad you did. 

Woodruff. The longer I live the more I abhor 
concealments — lies of every kind. Oh, the slavery of 
lies! 

Phyllis. Things have come to a pretty pass when 
the clergy — 

Dagmar. Oh, come now, Phyl, smooth down your 
feathers. Why, you act as if you were taking all this 
to heart. 

Phyllis. Ridiculous. . . . You'd better see if the 
auto's ready. You'll be late. 

Dagmar. [Seating himself.] Plenty of time. 

Phyllis. [To Woodruff.] Lucius is going for 
Julian. 

Woodruff. Julian ? 

Phyllis. Mr. Burroughs. 

Woodruff. Ah, yes. I'm anxious to make sure 
with my own jealous eyes that Diana has chosen well. 
4 



40 THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

Phyllis. Do be off, Lucius. 
Dagmar. Plenty of time. Auto's waiting. 
Woodruff. It's amazing the way these autos eat 
up distance and save time. 

Dagmar. Save time — that's the mischief of it. 
What's a man to do with all the time he saves now- 
adays ? 
Phyllis. Lucius, please \ 

Dagmar. You are nervous to-day. Well, here goes. 
[Exit Dagmar by veranda, left. 
Woodruff. And I think I'll settle my belongings — 
if you'll excuse me, Mrs. Dagmar. 
Phyllis. Phyllis. 
Woodruff. Phyllis — Phyllis. 

[Exit Woodruff into house. 
Diana. [In house.} Oh, Uncle Ben. Going to 
your room? 

Woodruff. Yes, for a little while. 

[Enter Diana. She is dressed as in Act I 
and is carrying a new hat band of blue 
and white silk for Merivale's Panama. 

Scene II. — Phyllis — Diana. 
Diana. Where's father? 
Phyllis. Still at his nap. 
Phyllis. [Appealingly.'] Di ! 

[Diana hesitates, without turning. 
Phyllis. Don't be cross with me. You're so se- 
cretive and Spartan that I sometimes forget how sen- 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 41 

sitive you are — how things affect you underneath. 
IPuts her arms round her.'] You know I love you, 
Di? — ^that I'm not thinking harshly of you? 

Diana. Yes, I know. [Kisses her shyly.] ... I 
suppose it's impossible for you to realize how it is 
with Julian and me. Believe me, Phyl— he loves me. 

Phyllis. But if he doesn't! 

[Diana laughs at her gently. 

Diana. ICarelessly.] Why, then— of course— 

[Shrugs. 

Phyllis. You wouldn't release him! 

Diana. Release him! Certainly I'd release him, 
as you call it, if he didn't love me. But he does. 

Phyllis. He must marry you. He's no right to 
take your all and cast you off. 

Diana. My all! If that's a woman's all— if that's 
her sole claim — her chief claim — then we women are 
low — level with the beasts. 

Phyllis. Women have to marry. You must marry 
him. 

Diana. If I were simply a woman-looking-for-a- 
husband, I suppose I might. But I'm not. I want 
love — to give love, to get it. I want him because I 
love him and because he loves me. I want his love 
— not anything else — not anything less. And I'd not 
kill it and my own self-respect by compelling him — 
in the least. He shall feel free — always free! 

Phyllis. Oh, Diana! How can you hope to get 
on with the world! 



42 THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

Diana. The world must get on with me. 

Phyllis. Those ideas are fine, Di. We all pro- 
fess them. But we don't — can't — act on them. You 
must remember this is a human world. [Diana makes 
a disdainful gestureJ] Suppose he should take you 
— ^your love for granted. Suppose he has no real in- 
tention of marrying you. 

Diana. [^Laughing frankly.'] Why, Phyl! 

Phyllis. When a man's about to do a contemptible 
thing, he always covers up his purpose from himself — 

Diana. But it wouldn't be contemptible, if he no 
longer loved me. 

Ph-yllis. {^Impatiently.'] Why discuss the ought- 
to-be ! We're facing the thing-that-is ! 

Diana. Nonsense ! You're talking as if Julian 
didn't love me. It's disloyal of me to let you do it. 
I love and I trust him — and I know he loves me. 

[Enter Merivale from house. 

Scene III. — Phyllis — Diana — Merivale. 
Diana. [Holding up the hat band.] Now, sir! 
I have it all ready to put on. 

[Phyllis walks up to the veranda rail, stands 
there deep in thought. 
Merivale. [Laughing and taking off his hat.] I 
thought you were dressing. 

Diana. You first. [Looks at the old band.] How 
I've been neglecting you ! [Seats herself, Merivale 
standing erect and looking lovingly down at her.] But 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 43 

we'll soon have you perfect. [Glances up at him.} 
Isn't he splendid, Phyl? 
Phyllis. [Absently. '\ What is it? 
Merivale. How happy you've made me. And be- 
fore you came, your mother and I both hoped it would 
be a son ! 

[Diana mith the hat in her lap fits on the 
new band. 
Diana. [Rising.'] See ! 

[Holds out the hat in one hand, the old band 

in the other. 

Merivale. [Laughing.'] Now, I realize that you 

certainly have neglected me. [She puts the hat on his 

head as he stoops to receive it.] But I forgive you. 

[With mock severity.] Don't let it occur again. 

Diana. Dear! [Kisses him.] I must rush away. 

There are several things to be looked after, and I've 

got to dress. [To Phyllis.] Don't look so sad, Phyl ! 

[Exit, radiant, left. Merivale gases after 

her, touching and arranging his hat. 

Scene IV.— Phyllis— Merivale. 

Phyllis. Father, you must have your talk with 
Julian before he sees Diana. 

Merivale. [Frowning, impatient, yet tolerant.] I 
shall not meddle. 

Phyllis. Meddle ! 

Merivale. In this household we respect one an- 
other's rights. If I should speak to Julian, Diana 



44 THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

would be angry — justly angry. She loves him. He 
loves her. Let them alone. Meddlers are always 
muddlers. 

Phyllis. You don't realize ! He must be made to 
see he can't treat her as he'd not permit any man to 
treat one of his sisters. Father, don't tempt him to 
think we are not entitled to the respect his own peo- 
ple would demand. Don't tempt him to trifle. 

Merivale. Julian's opinion of us is no more im- 
portant than our opinion of him. Diana is what she 
is — honest. A woman out of ten thousand. 

Phyllis. Indeed she is! That's why you — 

Merivale. If he fails to appreciate his good for- 
tune, the worse for him. Diana'd be well rid of him. 
Yes — I'll talk with him. I'll see just what there is in 
these suspicions of yours. 

Phyllis. [Agitated.'] Father! You mustn't take 
high ground with him. You must not ! Don't let your 
false pride inflame his false pride. Remember, Diana's 
happiness or misery is at stake. 

Merivale. Misery? Absurd! 

Phyllis. I say, misery. You don't know how — 
[hesitates — hurries on desperately] — ^how utterly she 
has trusted him. 

[Phyllis stands breathless, fearing he has 
understood. 

Merivale. True. Diana never is half-hearted. 
With her it's always all or nothing. 

[Phyllis draws a long breath of relief. 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 45 

Phyllis. And you know how steadfast she is. If 
she lost him it'd break her heart. 

Merivale. But if she got him, and he were un- 
worthy, that too would break her heart — and blast her 
life, to boot. Hearts mend; but lives — not so easily. 
Phyllis. He isn't unworthy — only careless, at most, 
I feel sure. 

^Hurries to veranda rail, glances to left, 
Merivale. [Thought fully.] Yes — yes. Til speak 
to him. 

Phyllis. I think I hear them. . . . Yes. . . . IGo- 
ing to Merivale and touching him affectionately,'] 
For her sake ! 

[Exit Phyllis by window door, left. 
Dagmar. [On veranda, outside.] You know the 
way. They're on the south veranda. 

[Enter Julian Burroughs by veranda, left. 
He is dressed in a fashionable traveling 
suit. He is obviously from an Eastern 
city, a well-bred youth, ardent and at- 
tractive. He stands an instant — hesitates. 

Scene V. — Merivale — Burroughs. 

Merivale. [With cordiality, yet with reserve.] 
Ah — welcome ! 

[He advances with extended hand. Bur- 
roughs, confused, hesitating, shakes 
hands. 



46 THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

Burroughs. Thank you, sir — ^thank you. I'm glad 
to see you so well. 

Merivale. And you? 

Burroughs. As always. iWith an effort.'] And 
glad to be here again. 

Merivale. Diana will be in presently. 

Burroughs. Ah — thank you — thanks. 

Merivale. [After a pause.'] And your father and 
mother ? 

Burroughs. lEmbarrassed.] Father's abroad just 
now. Mother is — not very well — not ill, but — not very 
well. 

Merivale. [After an awkward pause, and speaking 
with nervous shyness.] I've been rather expecting a 
— a — letter from her. [With an attempt at a smile of 
raillery.] You've told her of your — Western adven- 
ture? 

Burroughs. [Confused.] The fact is — well — I — 

she— 

[Pauses. 

Merivale. [With some sharpness.] You have not 
told her? 

Burroughs. Yes, sir, I have. 

Merivale. Well, sir? 

Burroughs. She's waiting until father returns. 

Merivale. [StiMy, with a touch of haughtiness.] 
I've no wish to interfere in what is Diana's business, 
but — Am I to understand that your mother is op- 
posed to your marriage? 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 47 

Burroughs. {Embarrassed, but with engaging can- 
dor.'] The fact is, sir, my mother has had other ideas 
for me. You will appreciate how she might be re- 
luctant to abandon them. She's not yet reconciled — 
hopes I'll change my mind. But — soon — I hope — I 

expect — 

[Pauses, painfully embarrassed, 

Merivale. {Kindly, trying to put him at his easeJ] 
I understand. I knew there was some perfectly sim- 
ple explanation. 

Burroughs. You see, sir, mother is a woman of 
strong prejudices. One of them is Western people — 
just as one of yours is we of the East. 

Merivale. {Laughing,] Yes. Yes. Exactly. . . . 
She has only to see Diana. [Burroughs turns away 
nervously. Merivale lays his hand reassuringly on 
his shoulder.] I'm sure of it. Don't let that trouble 
you. 

Burroughs. Of course, if my father should op- 
pose, it might delay ... It might make a very con- 
siderable difference in my income. But — in a few 
years — 

Merivale. {Eagerly relieved.] No more, Julian. 
My interest is Diana's happiness — and yours — and that 
depends on you and herself, not on parents or for- 
tune. [Burroughs, unnoted by Merivale, hangs his 
head.] Your father and mother have only to meet 
her. They'll welcome her. I appreciate their point of 
view. {Shakes hands with Burroughs.] I trust I'm 



48 THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

broad enough for that, li I'd never seen the man my 
Diana was marrying, I'd feel precisely as they do. All 
is well — thank God! Where is Dagmar — Phyllis? 

[Merivale pauses as he sees Phyllis and 
Dr. Woodruff entering by door to right. 
Phyllis's eyes seek her father's face, but 
she is not fully reassured by his air of a 
man with a weight happily off his mind. 
She and Burroughs shake hands, he em- 
barrassed, she frank and cordial. 

Scene VI. — Merivale — Burroughs — Phyllis — 
Woodruff. 

Merivale. Ben, this is the young man. 

[Woodruff advances to Burroughs, takes 
him by the hand, scrutinises his face. 

Woodruff. I'm delighted to meet you, sir — de- 
lighted to meet you. 

Merivale. [/ft answer to an .inquiring look from 
Burroughs.] Dr. Woodruff. 

Burroughs. I've often heard your name here. 

Woodruff. Hubert and I celebrate next week the 
fiftieth anniversary of our friendship. A long time to 
keep on good terms with a quarrelsome old chap like 
him, eh? 

Merivale. Come, now, Ben. Julian, I'll leave you 
here with Phyllis. [Takes Woodruff by the arm and 
points with his cane out to the right.'] We'll go down 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 



49 



the terrace to the granaries yonder. I'll show you a 
harvest sight that'll do your heart good. 

[They go to the right along the veranda. 
Woodruff. Diana's magic? 
Merivale. Diana's magic — at work. 

{Exeunt. Enter Dagmar by window door, 
left. 

Scene VII. — Burroughs — Phyllis — Dagmar. 

Dagmar. A tall cold one. Burroughs? 

Burroughs. No, thanks. Not just now. 

Dagmar. You're twenty minutes earlier than you 
were expected. That train was never on time before. 
Come on. 

Burroughs. No, thanks. Later perhaps. 

Dagmar. They're ready and waiting. 

Phyllis. Oh, you go and drink both, Lucius. 

Dagmar. I'll fill a drunkard's grave if I stay on 
here in the country. Always drinking alone, and al- 
ways taking two, so as not to seem mean and un- 
sociable. ^^ . ^ , r. • , T 

lExtt Dagmar, left, into the house. 

Scene VIIL — Phyllis — Burroughs. 

Phyllis. That train deceived Diana. I'm afraid 
it'll be some time before she comes. 

Burroughs. [^Embarrassed.'] I'm sorry. ... I 
hope she'll not be long. . . . I've got to take the six 
o'clock express for the East. 



50 THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

Phyllis. [Startling, then recovering her compos- 
ure and speaking in a tone of polite regret.'] Six 
o'clock! ... A great journey for such a little stop. 

Burroughs. You see, I'm arranging to go abroad. 

Phyllis. When do you sail? 

Burroughs. Next week — Wednesday. 

Phyllis. So soon ! 

Burroughs. And I fear I'll be on the other side — 
longer than I had thought — perhaps until spring — ^pos- 
sibly a year — though I hope not. 

Phyllis. [Constrainedly, almost absently.] That'll 
be lonely. 

Burroughs. [With some awkwardness.] Oh, I 
dare say Diana will pull through all right. She has 
her work. 

Phyllis. I wasn't thinking of Diana. I was think- 
ing of you — away off there in strange lands alone. 

Burroughs. There's always a lot of people one 
knows in London and Paris. I've several relatives 
married there. Then . . . mother's going with me. 
The doctor has prescribed a winter on the Riviera 
for her. 

Phyllis. Oh ! . . . Yes, of course. . . . That will 
be gay! Nice! Monte Carlo! 

Burroughs. [Confused and apologetic] I shan't 
be enjoying myself all the time. I'm going on busi- 
ness, too. 

Phyllis. The business of amusing your mother? 

Burroughs. That's the pleasure. We've always 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 51 

been chums. She looks like a sister rather than my 
mother, and she's great fun, when she's with those 
she likes and doesn't feel distant with — or — that is — 
IHe becomes greatly embarrassed and Phyllis does 
not help him, but aggravates his discomfort by placidly 
eyeing him.'] . . . You and mother would like each 
other, I'm sure. 

Phyllis. Yes? It's rather dangerous to predict 
what two women will think of each other. 

Burroughs. [Depressed.] That's true, isn't it? I 
do hope she'll like Diana. 

Phyllis. [Dryly.] It's important, too — I should 
say — whether Di will like her. 

Burroughs. [Confused.] Of course — certainly. 
[A constrained silence, then he, with a nervous attempt 
to make light conversation.] I hope you'll do what 
you can to prevent Diana from forgetting me while 
I'm away. 

Phyllis. I'll do my best. But you know Di — how 
busy she is. When one is busy, there's little time for 
anything except what absolutely forces itself on one's 
attention. She and father'll be going South this 
winter. 

Burroughs. She works entirely too hard. A rest 
will be just the thing for her. 

Phyllis. A change, rather than a rest. They'll go 
to Palm Beach. It's lively there, and she's been lead- 
ing too secluded a life. Lucius and I are taking a 
house in Washington, and we'll have her visit us for 



52 THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

February and March. She'll enjoy it, once she gets 
in the swing. I don't know any place so fascinating 
as Washington in the season. And what a hit Di will 
make! 

Burroughs. [Jealously.'] I hope so. 

Phyllis. ^Sweetly.] Lucius's aunt, Mrs. Throck- 
morton, has a big house there, and she'll give her the 
right sort of background. 

Burroughs. [Somewhat sourly.'] That'll be nice. . . . 
[With an awkward laugh.] I see there's small danger 
of my being missed. 

Phyllis. You can't expect a girl like Di to play 
Mariana of the Moated Grange, and mix her fancies 
with the sallow rifted glooms, and moan, " He cometh 
not ! He cometh not 1 " 

Burroughs. [GruMy.] Hardly. . . . [Paces up and 
down restlessly.] . . . Where is she? 

Phyllis. [With some embarrassment.] She — she 
went to the Creek farm. 

Burroughs. I think I'll go to meet her. 

Phyllis. You can't miss her. There's only the one 
road. 

Burroughs. I'll walk that way. 

Phyllis. Yes. Your time here is so short. You'll 
meet her, no doubt, before you've gone far. 

[Exit Burroughs by veranda, left, Phyllis 
nodding and smiling friendlily at him. 
The instant he disappears, her face, her 
manner change to deep agitation. 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 53 

Phyllis. Going for a year! A year! 

[Enter Diana by door to left. She is dressed 
beautifully in a walking costume, with a 
very short skirt which makes her look 
extremely girlish, and is most becoming 
to her figure, which is graceful, alluring, 
free in line and in movement. 

Scene IX. — Phyllis — Diana. 

Diana. Where's Julian? 

Phyllis. [Startled.l^ Ah ! . . . 

Diana. Lucius said he was here with you. Why 
didn't you tell me he'd come? 

Phyllis. I sent him away because I must speak 
with you first. Di — ^he's — 

Diana. Interfering in my affairs ! Phyllis — 

Phyllis. Di, he's come to break his engagement! 

Diana. Oh, Phyl ! rr » 

{Laughs, 

Phyllis. I tell you he has. Of course, he's too 
thoroughly the man of honor to admit it to himself. 
But it's the truth. He and his mother are going abroad 
next week, to be gone a year — 

Diana. [Sharply. 1 A year! 

Phyllis. Yes — a year. She's made him promise 
to see whether a year's separation won't change him. 

Diana. [Dazedly.'] A year. Promised his 
mother — 

Phyllis. And of course it will — with her artfully 



54 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 



poisoning him against you — ^you four thousand miles 
away. 

Diana. {Dazedly.'] A year. {Sharply to Phyl- 
lis.] How do you know? 

Phyllis. He told me himself. Here. Just now. 
[Diana turns away. A pause, 

Diana. {Hoarsely.'] A year. ... A promise. . . . 
When I telegraphed for him — 

{She pauses, reflecting, oblivious of her sister. 

Phyllis. {Staring in amazement.] You tele- 
graphed for him. . . . Then he didn't come of his 
own . . . Di ! . . . You sent for him ! . . . Disgrace ! 
Disgrace ! Disgrace ! . . . {Brokenly.] Oh — Diana ! 
Diana ! . . . {In a low, horrified voice.] If he should 
refuse to marry you ! 

Diana. {Half absently.] Don't say those things, 
Phyl! . . . {Absorbed again.] What shall I do? 

Phyllis. But if I— if I Oh, my God! 

Diana. {Calmly.] There is no if. 

Phyllis. {Distracted.] He's surely a man of 
honor. He simply can't squirm out of it. When you 
tell him, he'll have to marry you. 

Diana. {Strongly.] I'll not tell him. He shall 
feel free. I'll not seem to be compelling him. 

Phyllis. Mad! Mad! . . . But this is only talk. 
It can't be that you don't realize your position. When 
you see him — 

Diana. When I see him, I'll see a love like my 
own. 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 55 

Phyllis. Love ! Love ! Let's hear no more about 
love till you've got a husband. 

Diana. And I'd hear nothing about a husband till 
I was sure — sure — about love. 

Phyllis. [Wildly.] I tell you, Diana, Julian Bur- 
roughs has no intention of marrying you. 

Diana. You insult him ! — ^you insult me ! 

Phyllis. Sh— father ! 

lEnter Merivale on veranda, left. 

Scene X. — Phyllis — Diana — Merivale. 

Merivale. Is Julian there? I don't see him. 

Phyllis. He'll be here in a moment, father. 

Merivale. The sun got too hot for me. When Ben 
comes, tell him I'm in my study. 

Phyllis. Very well, father. 

Merivale. My eyes aren't what they once were. 
But I think I see how happy you are. Ah — youth — 
youth and love. It makes me feel old. But — happy 
•—yes indeed, happy. I'm not altogether selfish— not 
altogether. j-^^.^ Merivale into the house, left. 

Scene XI.— Phyllis— Diana. 

Phyllis. [Softly, solemnly.] Suppose you should 

be wrong about Julian — what of father ? . . . He'd not 

reproach you. . . . He'd cover his wound, smile — die. 

[Diana wavers, recovers herself. 

Diana. [Strongly.] He'd understand. It was he 

5 



56 THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

who taught me that self-respect is honor, lies shame. 
. . . Why, what are we talking about? You shan't 
tempt me into the disloyalty of doubt. I know Julian 
loves me as I love him. I know it ! 

Burroughs. [Outside, on veranda.'] I went as far 
as Cresson Hill. 

[Diana lifts her head exultantly, clasps her 
hands. Phyllis hastily exit, into house. 
Burroughs. [Outside.'] Oh — 

[Enter Burroughs. He stands uncertainly 
an instant, distinctly shows embarrass- 
ment. As he gases at her lithe figure and 
face aglow, his passion surges. 

Scene XH. — Diana — Burroughs. 

Burroughs. Diana ! [He extends his arms, rushes 
toward her, then with his hands upon her arms at the 
shoulders, pauses, and his eyes devour her face.] 
Diana ! 

[Kisses her passionately. Her arms encircle 
his neck, and they cling together in a long 
embrace. 
Diana. My dear love ! 

[Burroughs holds her at arm's length, gazes 

into her face. 

Burroughs. Your touch — [kisses her passionately] 

— it's like life in the glorious dawn of the world. 

[Strains her in his arjns.] As soon as I got the first 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 57 

glimpse of this place, it all began to come back to me. 
And when I saw you — [Gases at her fervently.'] 
You! — it was as if love were racing through me with 
a torch, setting me on fire in every vein. [Embraces 
her tightly.'] Cheek to cheek — breast to breast ! 

Diana. Heart to heart ! Oh, it has been so long- 
so long! But I've not been unhappy. I could always 
feel your love — strong — true ! 

Burroughs. [Clasping her again.] I do love you ! 
[Half to himself.] I do ! I could not — could not give 
you up. 

[Diana slowly half releases herself, looks up 
at him laughingly. 

Diana. Give me up. Give up your wife! How 
absurd it sounds ! As if we could be separated ! 
[Kisses him. Gases at him again, notes his confused, 
nervous expression.] — Ah ! 

Burroughs. [Stammeringly.] What is it, Di? 
[Tries to draw her close to him again, but she gently 
resists.] . . . Don't look at me like that. ... I didn't 
mean . . . that is — 

Diana. [Drawing back slowly, wonderingly.] Why 
do your eyes no longer meet mine? . . . Tell me, 
Julian ! . . . Oh, Julian, be frank— be frank ! 

Burroughs. It's nothing. 

Diana. Your mother — is it your mother? 

Burroughs. I ought to have warned you. But, I 
didn't realize it myself— how she'd feel about — about 
my marrying. 



58 THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

Diana. How do you feel about it? 

Burroughs. Now that I see you again — feel your 
magic fingers — how my blood thrills ! 

Diana. ISadly.'] Is that alll 

Burroughs. All? 

Diana. What did you think when I was not with 
you? 

Burroughs. [Evasively,'\ I don^t understand. 

Diana. [Sadly.'] Ah, yes — Julian. You under- 
stand. 

Burroughs. My mother shall not come between us ! 

Diana. She told you it was mere physical attrac- 
tion? Was she right? If she was, be brave enough 
to say so, Julian. When you were clear of the spell 
over your sense, did you find you didn't care? — not 
as you believed? 

Burroughs. Diana, I swear — 

Diana. You've the right to change your mind. 
You've not the right to hide it from me. 

Burroughs. Why should you think I changed? 

Diana. In all your letters, you said not one word 
about your mother's opposition. 

Burroughs. I admit, that was not frank. But I 
didn't know what to do. Be just, Di. I love my 
mother. {He takes her hand.'] We've always been 
the best friends in the world, as I've told you. You 
know you'd be the first to denounce me as a heartless 
cad if I showed no respect for her feelings. [Diana 
nods slowly.] Put yourself in my place. I was in a 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 



59 



frightful position — between my duty to her and my 
duty to you. [Diana draws her hand away. 

Burroughs. You'll understand, when you see her, 
why I speak as I do. There's a certain pride — a — a 
majesty — We've all been brought up to stand in awe 
of her — 

Diana. [Coldly.'] The picture is not attractive. 

Burroughs. [Desperately.} At any rate, she has 

promised that, as soon as we return, she'll withdraw 

her opposition, if — _^, , , . ., 

[Checks himself. 

Diana. Go on! 

Burroughs. That's all. What's the matter, Diana? 
You're not yourself. 

Diana. You were about to say she'd withdraw her 
opposition if you still wish to marry me. 

Burroughs. [Eagerly.] I shall not change! 

Diana. And I ? ^.^ , , . 

[Burroughs lowers his eyes. 

Diana. And I? 

Burroughs. You will not understand me. You 
twist everything I say. 

Diana. You don't ask me to swear I'll not change. 
[Laughs satirically.'] You feel I'm yours — to take or 
to cast aside, as you choose — as you shall choose, a 
year from now. 

Burroughs. Diana, don't put it that way! 

Diana. It does look ugly — doesn't it — the naked 
truth ? 

Burroughs. [Pleadingly.] I didn't mean that. 



6o THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

Diana. You mean, you didn't realize how your 
thoughts would sound until you spoke them. {Laughs 
again; then with sudden anger.'] How dare you! 
How dare you think of me as a poor creature, at your 
mercy ! 

Burroughs. It isn't true. I never thought that — 
never I 

Diana. [Facing him, suddenly.] Then what did 
you think? 

[His eyes sink before hers. A long pause. 

Burroughs. I admit in a way and for a moment 
I may have faltered— j-^^ ^^^^^^^ 

Diana. [Mournfully.'] In love — such love as ours 
professed to be — to falter is to fail. 

[She turns from him. 

Burroughs. You wrong me, Diana. I admit I've 
been moved by my mother — more than I should. You 
can't understand — ^you who've always lived in this at- 
mosphere of freedom — I was at home — and the home 
influence was strong about me. [Diana listens sym- 
pathetically.] I did let my mother say more than I 
should. I did consent to wait. But, Di, I never 
wavered in my obligation to you. 

Diana. Obligation ! [Laughs wildly.] Obligation ! 
That word on the lips of a lover ! . . . Obligation — 
duty — must . . . [Her voice breaks.] Oh, Juhan, 
we've traveled far from love, you and I — haven't we? 

Burroughs. [Passionately seising her.] No ! No ! 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 6i 

My words were unfortunate. And I've done things I 

ought not. But now — now — with you before my eyes 

— with my arms about you — I love you — love you as I 

always have. __, . ^ , . , 

\Tries to ktss her. 

Diana. {Withholding her lips.'] You love me? 
{Wistfully.] You mean that? 

Burroughs. I mean that. I — ^love — ^you. {Em- 
braces her sensuously.] I love you. Diana ! Diana ! 

{A long kiss; a close embrace. 

Diana. {Releasing herself a little.] Now, I can 
tell you. {Kisses him, laughs softly.] I didn't really 
doubt you — I couldn't. Only — When one loves, 
every little thing makes one tremble. 

Burroughs. Dearest! . . . I can't go away so 
soon! I shan't go to-day. 

Diana. How would you like to take me with you? 

Burroughs. [Tenderly.] Diana! ^,_. , 

'- -^ -• {Kisses her. 

Diana. {Softly, shyly.] Do you know why I tele- 
graphed? I sent for you to marry me at once. 

Burroughs. {Releasing her, smiling uneasily.] 
Marry? At once? {Takes his arms away.] I don't 
see how I can. {Turns from her a little.] My peo- 
ple — {with a quick, nervous laugh] — and yours, too, 
of course — they'd think it strange — wouldn't they? 
{Looks at her, is fascinated by her expression.] Di! 
. . . {Low, intense.] You telegraphed because — 
{Falls back a step.] This is — ^terrible ! {Faces her.] 



62 THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

Terrible ! . . . {Sees her expression of utter, dazed 
despair, pityingly.'] Poor girl ! [Advances toward 
her.] Poor Di ! 

[Tries to take her in his arms, 

Diana. Don't — touch — me. 

[Burroughs starts hack, hangs his head. A 
pause. 

Burroughs. [Shamefacedly.'] Forget what I said. 
I — I didn't mean it. 

Diana. Quite unnecessary. 

Burroughs. What do you mean, Diana? 

Diana. The hypocrisy. Unnecessary. Most of- 
fensive. 

Burroughs. [With dignity.] Surely you can't 
doubt my honor — that I'm willing to make reparation? 

Diana. Reparation! Reparation! . . . But I de- 
serve it. Reparation! . . . [To herself.] I can't be- 
lieve it ! It's a dream ! 

Burroughs. What can I say to— 

Diana. Say? Nothing! . . . Look at me! . . . 
Do you love — love me? 

Burroughs. I do — but — 

Diana. [Wildly.] Passion! Only a passionate 
impulse. . . . It's a horrible dream — only a dream! 

Burroughs. By all we've been to each other, I 
swear — 

Diana. "By all we've been to each other." And 
what was that ? What was in your heart ? Leave me ! 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 63 

Go! I can't bear it. ... I can't realize it — I can't! 
I believed utterly — not a doubt ! . . . Go ! Go ! 

Burroughs. I'll not go. I must marry you. I'll 
see your father, say — 

Diana. I? I — marry a man whose heart is shrink- 
ing from me? I? 

Burroughs. We must! 

Diana. [Beside herself. '\ Must! With love and 
trust dead — [despairingly^ — dead! . . . [Passionately.'] 
No! 

Burroughs. [Angrily,'] Yes — must. . . . You — 
forget ! 

[A pause. Diana stares at him, looks round 
wildly, sinks into a chair, gazes straight 
before her. 

Diana. [Breathlessly.] Must! Must! 

[Burroughs watches her uneasily, then exit 
by window door, left, into house. 

Diana. I— must ! 



Curtain. 



ACT III 

Same as Act I. — The Library. At the table near the 
center Maggie is arranging white lowers in 
vases; Billy is carrying a large palm through 
the room. 

Scene I. — Maggie — Billy. 

Maggie. [Surveying the vase she has just filled.'] 
I'm afraid that looks stiff. 

Billy. [Setting down the palm.'] What's the dif- 
ference? There ain't going to be no outsiders in. 
Who'll notice? 

Maggie. It ain't who'll notice; it's the inward sat- 
isfaction ! 

Billy [Contemptuously.] In'ard satisfaction! 

Maggie. That sniff explains why you'll always 
stay just a man-of-all-work. 

Billy. Be that as it may, I could 'a' had you for 
the asking. 

Maggie. Not since the law allowed of my marry- 
ing. You'll have to court close to the cradle if you 
ever get a wife. A grown woman wants a somebody 
with something. 

Billy. Meaning a Peter? [Laughs.] Peter's a 
wonder, he is ! . . . Dobbin — steady old Dobbin. 

64 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 65 

Maggie. Miss Diana has promised that from now 
on he's to share in the profits. 

Billy. \Whistling.'\ So that's it! I seen your 
airs before I seen you. Well, Peter's gettin' his pay 
for his bootlickin'. 

Maggie. For his work, and you know it. 

Billy. [After glancing round cautiously.'] Ain't it 
queer about this here wedding? I don't understand 
it, nohow. 

Maggie. Of course you don't. As soon as any- 
thing happens out of the ordinary, you're all suspicion. 
Mr. Burroughs has to go to Europe on business. He 
wants to take her with him. 

Billy. But is she going — ^that's what I want to 
know. Is she going? Why hasn't she had the trunks 
up, to pack 'em? 

Maggie. [Lamely.] It — it — ain't decided — yet. 

Billy. You don't know nothing about it! 

Maggie. I mind my own business — and plenty to do 
it gives me. 

Billy. She looks strange. She acts strange. 

Maggie. You think the whole world's rotten. 

Billy. [Injured.] Who said rotten? [Excited- 
ly.] Do you think it's as bad as that? 

Maggie. Now, did anybody everl Trying to make 
me out as low as you are. 

Billy. Well, humans is humans, the high as hu- 
man as the low — that's my experience. The high's 
got high names for it, and the low low, but there it 



66 THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

is, just the same. All flesh is dust — and what's dust 
but dirt? 

Maggie. Shame on you! Why are you hanging 
round here? Why ain't you attending to Mr. Julian? 
Billy. I did. I had to speak twice before he an- 
swered, and then he cut me off like a snapping turtle. 
Maggie. I'd think you'd 'a' got used to being 
treated that way, and wouldn't notice it. 

Billy. [Tauntingly,'] No, thank you! Peter's 
quite welcome — quite! 

[Enter Woodruff from the right. Billy 
takes up the palm and exit by double 
doors, to the left, with a wag of the 
head and a wink at Maggie that infuri- 
ates her. 

Scene 11. — Maggie — Woodruff. 

Maggie. [Noting his depressed air.] We shall miss 
her dreadful, doctor. If I gave way, I'd not be able 
to do anything for crying. 

Woodruff. My friend Merivale is dazed — dazed. 
He's at his desk, staring at his books, seeing nothing, 
hearing nothing. 

Maggie. What'll he be like when she's really gone, 
when he — we all — really miss her? It ain't the death 
or the separation so much — not right at the moment. 
It's the emptiness afterwards. 

Woodruff. The emptiness afterwards. My wife — 
you remember her, Maggie ? 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 67 

Maggie. Yes, sir — ^yes, indeed. 
Woodruff. It was more than a month after — after 
God took her, when the real heartache began. And 
it's never left me . . . and never shall . . . until I see 
her again. 

lEnter Phyllis from left She is in fashion- 
able afternoon dress. Her air is excited 
and gay. 

Scene HI.— Maggie— Woodruff—Phyllis. 

Phyllis. Why, doctor! One'd think you were 
about to conduct a funeral. And you, too, Maggie. 
This won't do ! Doctor, go cheer up father. Maggie, 
bring me more flowers— help Billy with them. 

[Exit Maggie by veranda, left. Phyllis in- 
spects the vases on the table. 
Woodruff. It's true, we're not losing Diana but 
gaining Julian. 

Phyllis. That's the way to look at it! [As 
Woodruff turns to leave.'] First, go into the parlor 
and see what you think of things— And the hall and 
dining room, too. 

Woodruff. Delighted ! 

lExit Woodruff by double doors. Phyllis, 
humming, busies herself rearranging flow- 
ers in the vases. Enter Dagmar from 
right, smoking cigarette and moving lei- 
surely, as usual. 



68 THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

Scene IV. — Phyllis — Dagmar. 

Phyllis. Oh, I thought it was Billy. But he 
couldn't be back yet. I sent him for more flowers. 
These ridiculous country bouquets of Maggie's! But 
she did her best. 

Dagmar. Why the rush? You'll give yourself 
prickly heat. Take it easy. You've more than an 
hour before the wedding, and only the one room left 
to fix up. [Stands at parlor door.'] Why, it's prac- 
tically ready. Very smart. Very smart. 

Phyllis. I thought you were looking after Julian. 

Dagmar. He endured me half an hour, then said 
flatly that he preferred to be alone. Of course mar- 
riage is a joke — a joke on the man. But Julian ought 
to buck up — ^be a sport — have a sense of humor. 

Phyllis. [Pausing abruptly, and gazing at Dag- 
mar.] Where is he? 

Dagmar. Calm yourself. He hasn't fled. 

Phyllis. [Resuming her work.] Don't be an 
idiot. 

Dagmar. He's terribly restless. He'll wear himself 
out before the party begins. I understand, though. 
I was in a frightful stew on our wedding day, my- 
self. 

Phyllis. Really ! 

Dagmar. But then, I had more excuse than he 
has. Our day was fixed months beforehand. That's 
bad business. His way's the best. All the difference 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 69 

between dating a dentist months ahead and just 
popping in off the street to have it out. Yes, Bur- 
roughs is wise. ... I don't wonder he's nervous, li 
we men weren't such cowards, the first strains of the 
wedding march'd be the signal for the flight of many 
a bridegroom. 

Phyllis. I see no fun in cheap comic-paper humor 
about marriage. 

Dagmar. Humor? I was philosophizing. Julian's 
face set me thinking. It's a true wedding face. You 
know, nobody but the bride's father and mother ever 
looks cheerful at a wedding. ISeriously.} But — 
Julian's face is unusually — 

IHesitates. 

Phyllis. Unusually what? 

Dagmar. Joking aside, Phyl, there's sure some- 
thing queer about this wedding — now, isn't there? 
[Phyllis ignores him.'] If the man I drove over 
from the station — the man with no change suit — if 
he was on his way to marry — I'll eat my hand. Ain't 
I right? 

Phyllis. [With cheerful sarcasm.'] We've lived 
together two years, and you haven't yet learned that 
I — never — answer — questions. 

Dagmar. Oh, yes, I have, but I like to ask ques- 
tions. Besides, I'm hopeful. ... Of course, I know 
he's in love with her — [Walks up and down smok- 
ing. Phyllis hums gayly-] You are in a good 
humor ! 



7© THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

Phyllis. Rather. Rather. A great weight off my 
mind — getting Di married safely — 

Dagmar. And so well. 

Phyllis. And so well. A young sister — impulsive 
— with noble, silly notions about the equality of men 
and women — with a belief everyone's as honest and 
high-minded as herself — What a dangerous character 
to be at large! 

Dagmar. Appalling ! 

[Enter Maggie with apron full of flowers. 

Phyllis. [To Maggie.] I find I've enough after 

all, Maggie. Take them into the parlor and put them 

with those already banked on the mantel. 

Maggie. Yes, Miss Phyllis. ^r^ . ,, 

[Exit Maggie. 

Phyllis. [To Dagmar.] Carry in these vases. 

I've got to go up and look Diana over and smooth 

myself out a bit. You know you and father aren't to 

change, as Julian has only his traveling suit. And see 

that Maggie doesn't ruin the mantel. She's so heavy 

handed — so countrified. . . . No, I'd better go myself. 

[As she is about to exit with a vase, enter 

Woodruff, almost humping into her. He 

is beaming and rubbing his hands. 

Scene V. — Phyllis — Dagmar — ^Woodruff. 
Woodruff. Pardon — I beg your pardon ! . . . The 
parlor and hall are exquisite. And the dining room, 
too. 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 71 

Phyllis. Aren't they! And we'd really no time 

^^ all- rr^ . r. 

[Extt Phyllis imtk vase. 
Dagmar. You'll excuse us, doctor? 
Woodruff. Don't mind me. I'm one of the family. 
lExit Dagmar with vase, whistling the wed- 
ding march as he goes. Enter Maggie 
presently, to take up the remaining vase 
from the table. 

Scene VI. — Woodruff — Maggie. 

Woodruff. These delicious flowers! The Lord is 
indeed good to give them to us. 

Maggie. [Indignantly.'] Oh, my, these didn't grow 
wild, sir. Miss Diana, she developed them. No, in- 
deed — they're anything but wild. 

[Woodruff looks disconcerted, starts to ex- 
plain, shrugs and smiles. In lifting the 
vase Maggie drops several Hoivers, sets 
it down to pick them up. Enter Bur- 
roughs from veranda, right. He is som- 
ber, restless. 

Scene VII. — Woodruff — Maggie — Burroughs. 

Burroughs. I'm looking for Mrs. Dagmar. I 
thought I'd find her here. 

Maggie. She was in the parlor. But I reckon she's 
gone up by now. Shall I send her? 
6 



72 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 



Burroughs. No — no, thanks. It was nothing. 

Maggie. You haven't given us much time, Mr. 
Julian. 

Woodruff. But time enough, after all. When 
everything's ready for the voyage, why fuss and 
dawdle over the mere embarking? 

Burroughs. Why, indeed. 

[Enter Billy by door to left, front. 

Scene VIII. — Burroughs — Woodruff — Maggie — 
Billy. 

Woodruff. It's a pity your parents couldn't be 
here. 

Burroughs. [Curtly.l It was impossible. [Some- 
what less abruptly.'] Father's in Europe, and mother 
not well enough to travel. 

[Maggie glances at Billy zvith a nod and 
smile of triumph. Burroughs is moving 
restlessly about. 

Woodruff. I'm sorry to hear that. Nothing seri- 
ous, I trust? 

Burroughs. No — oh, no. 

Woodruff. I'm sure the sight of your bride will 
cure her. 

Burroughs. [Awkwardly.'] Thank you. 

Billy. [To Woodruff.] Mr. Merivale'd like to 
see you, if you can come. 

Woodruff. Certainly. You'll excuse me? 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 73 

Burroughs. I'll wait for Mrs. Dagmar. 

lExit Woodruff by door to left, front, Billy 
following. Burroughs strolls uneasily 
about the room. 

Scene IX. — Burroughs — Maggie. 
Maggie. I'll go tell her. 

Burroughs. No — not the least hurry. Don't let 
me interrupt your work. 

Maggie. I've just finished. How do you like the 
looks of the room? 
Burroughs. lAbsently.'] Charming — charming. 

[Enter Phyllis by the door left, front. 

Scene X. — Maggie — Phyllis — Burroughs. 
Phyllis. How quickly you've worked — and how 
well! 
Maggie. I'm glad you're pleased. 
Phyllis. You'd better go up to Miss Diana and 
see if she wants anything. [Glances at the clock.'] 
Still nearly an hour before the wedding. 

Maggle. So it is. Who'd a thought it? Its surpris- 
ing how much a body can do when they've no time. 
[Maggie takes the vase and moves toward 
parlor doors. Phyllis watches Bur- 
roughs uneasily. As Maggie reaches 
the door, enter Merivale and W^ood- 
RUFF. She stands aside for them to pass, 
then exit. 



74 THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

Scene XI.-^Phyllis — Burroughs — Woodruff — 
Merivale. 

Merivale. [Gravely, to Burroughs.] I was in 
search of you. 

[Burroughs looks disconcerted, Phyllis un- 
easy. 

Burroughs. Of me, sir? 

[Woodruff and Phyllis go to the veranda, 
talk at extreme left rear of scene, she 
watchful of her father and Burroughs. 

Merivale. A moment ago — only a moment ago — 
I suddenly remembered our conversation about the 
opposition of your parents. 

Burroughs. [Showing great relief. '\ I hope I did 
not give you the impression, sir, that their opposition 
was — serious ? 

Merivale. No — oh, no. But — When you came 
to me a while ago — told me you wished to take her 
now, I — I — I thought only of my own distress, over 
giving her up so soon. [Merivale with an effort 
steadies himself.] But now — Have you told her 
about your parents? 

Burroughs. [With constraint.] She understands 
the situation. 

Merivale. [Hesitatingly.] I suppose, then, I've no 
right to interfere. It has always been my idea that 
the most that can be wisely done by parents for chil- 
dren is to train them to be fearless and truthful. The 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 75 

rest will take care of itself. They may— and— will- 
make mistakes, but they will certainly come out right, 
where children who have been guarded and sheltered 
from experience never learn to control themselves. 

Burroughs. I assure you, sir, my parents would 
entirely approve, were they here to be consulted. 

Merivale. You are sure of this? Your own eager- 
ness is not misleading you? 

Burroughs. I am sure my eagerness is not mis- 
leading me. 

Merivale. [After a brief pause, turnmg suddenly 
and appealingly to Burroughs.] Love her, Julian! 
Her nature is a vein of gold— the deeper, the richer. 
Love her. 

[Burroughs lowers his eyes, then his head. 
His lips move, but he is inaudible. Meri- 
vale lays one hand affectionately on his 
shoulder for an instant. 
Merivale. Love! Youth! [Sighs, with an effort 
at cheerfulness.'] I am selfish— selfish. [Approaches 
Woodruff and Phyllis. To Woodruff.] You and 
Phyllis will take care of my son, here. And Phyllis, 
will you sendi Diana to me? 
Phyllis. She is very busy. 

Merivale. But not too busy to give her father a 
few minutes alone before the wedding. 
Phyllis. Very well, father. 

[Exit Woodruff, Burroughs, and Phyllis 
by veranda, to left. Merivale sits on the 



76 THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

sofa to left, reiiecting. He rises, takes a 
framed photograph of Diana from the 
top of the cabinet to right, gases long at 
it, kisses it. He returns it to its place, 
reseats himself on the sofa to the left 
with a heavy sigh. Enter Diana from 
the right, in a white embroidered batiste 
that reveals her throat. She is very pale. 
She halts at the threshold. 

Scene XIL — Merivale — Diana. 
Merivale. Diana — my daughter. 

[Diana crosses to him, seats herself upon his 
knee, looks into his face. He strokes her 
hair and kisses her brow. 
Merivale. Diana, are you sure you love Julian? 
Diana. Yes, father. I — love — him. 
Merivale. Are you sure he loves you? 

[Diana lowers her eyes, evades an answer 
by pressing her head against his. 
Merivale. You have always been good — what I 
call good — truthful, honest, unafraid, splendidly will- 
ful. 
Diana. ^Absently.'] Willful— willful ! 
Merivale. Thank God, I never had a docile child. 
As the great American poet said, " Resist much, obey 
little." I've tried to teach you that no one is up to 
the full human stature who isn't master, and sole mas- 
ter, within himself. 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 77 

Diana. I thank you for having taught me that. 
That's why Tm able to look at you and say : " Father, 
I've made mistakes — grave mistakes — one that has cost 
me dear — dear! But never anything you'd frown on 
me for, if you knew all about it." 

Merivale. One that has cost you dear? 

Diana. One that has cost me dear. \^As he be- 
gins to speak, lays her fingers on his lips.'] But you've 
taught me to act for myself, to learn from my mis- 
takes, and to bear consequences without shirking — 
and in silence. 

Merivale. Can't I help you? 

Diana. Not this time — thanks, daddy. {Cheer- 
fully.'] I'll come out all right. 

Merivale. Indeed you will. And your happiness 
is secure, with Julian. 

[Diana's face clouds and she turns away to 
hide it from him. 

Diana. I shall make my own life, as you have 
taught me. 

Merivale. Thanks to the great and good God 
whom creeds caricature, I've a daughter fit to be the 
wife of a man, the mother of children ! 

Diana. I shall make many, many mistakes, father, 
but — {She lifts her eyes to his.] I'll do nothing of 
which I shall be ashamed. 

Merivale. And from you that means, nothing of 
which your father would be less than proud. 

Diana. {Suddenly clinging to him,] I want to be- 



78 THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

licve so, father. [She embraces him.] I feel I could 
count on you, no matter what might come. How 
strong that makes me ! 

Merivale. What is it, child? Why do you speak 
so sadly? 
Diana. Not sadly. No — not sadly — only earnestly. 
Merivale. I see the years — long, yet short, stretch- 
ing away before you — years of sun and storm, but 
after every storm, the sun; beyond every shadow, the 
sun; and you strong and fearless, beside your husband, 
with your children about you — children like yourself. 
Diana. [Painfully moved.'] Father! 
Merivale. You are founding your life solidly upon 
love and truth. Love and truth! 

[Diana draws away sharply^ gazes into the 
distance. 
Diana. [Slowly and in -a strange voice.] Love 
and truth — Love — and — ^truth. [Looks at him grave- 
ly.] That is the only foundation? 

Merivale. There is no other. Against it, storms 
rage in vain. Without it, the fairest house tumbles 
to ruin. 

[Diana rises, walks slowly ufr and dotvn, her 
head bent, her hands clasped tightly be- 
hind her. 
Diana. Love — and — truth. 

[Enter from the left Woodruff. She pauses, 
gazes at him. He returns her look Tvith 
a fatherly smile. 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 79 

Scene XIII. — Diana — Merivale — Woodruff. 
Woodruff. Mrs. Dagmar — Phyllis — sent me to — 

IPauses. 
Merivale. YouVe not interrupting, Ben. 
Diana. [Aside. Ji Love— and— truth. [To Meri- 
vale.] Daddy, leave me with Uncle Ben. 

[Merivale, still preoccupied, rises, kisses her, 
looks long into her face, kisses her again, 
Merivale. A wedding is very solemn, Ben — far 
more solemn than a funeral. Death is a conclusion, 
a finality, while marriage is a beginning, full of pos- 
sibilities and perplexities. {Releases Diana linger- 
*^gh'^ Thank God, our girl here sets sail in a stout 
ship. I am selfish — selfish. 

[Exit Merivale to the left. 

Scene XIV. — Diana — Woodruff. 

Woodruff. Well, little girl, what is it? 

Diana. [Earnestly studying his face.'] Yes, I can 
trust you. 

Woodruff. I have loved you very especially, child, 
since you were a baby in long dresses, in the arms of 
your dear mother. ... I see in your eyes that you 
are greatly troubled. 

Diana. Uncle Ben, suppose I knew Julian does 
not love me as he should — does not respect me as a 
man must respect his wife — 



So THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

Woodruff. Does not respect you! Why, child — 
why, Diana — that's impossible. 

Diana. It is true. 

Woodruff. You are deluding yourself. The ex- 
citement — ^the strain — 

Diana. He does not respect me because I have 
been to him what he thinks of as his — ^his mistress. 

Woodruff. [Springing to his feet.'] Diana! 

Diana. You see how it affects you. Well — that's 
the way he feels. 

Woodruff. [Sifting and taking her hand.] My 
poor, poor Diana. 

Diana. [With bitterness.] Precisely! Just what 
he thinks — pity and contempt. 

Woodruff. No ! No ! I'll not believe it. 

Diana. Believe or not, as you please. It is true. 
And, since it is so — since he does look down on me — 
since he would not marry me, had he choice — ought 
I to marry him? 

Woodruff. He must realize that, if you did such a 
thing, it was in a moment of passing weakness — an 
impulse you were not responsible for. He must 
realize that he is to blame. 

Diana. But that is not true. It never is. Women 
plead it, and men, liking to think woman the weaker 
vessel, believe them. But it isn't so. [Impatiently.] 
Let's not discuss that. What I wish to know is, ought 
I to marry him? Would it be right? 

Woodruff. Why not? He has — [Rises, paces up 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 8i 

and down.'] . . . Who'd have believed it of him? He 
looks an honorable man. 

Diana. And so he is. A dishonorable man v^rould 
have twisted his conscience to his inclination. He's 
quite willing to " make reparation " — I believe that's 
the classical term. It's the term he used. Oh, his atti- 
tude is correct, I assure you. He looks down on me, 
and that is most manlike, most conventional. He is 
willing to marry me, and that is most honorable. 

Woodruff. [Bursting out again.] To insinuate 
himself into this beautiful, this ideal home, to poison — 

Diana. Don't, please! You know better. [Faces 
him.] Am / the woman a man could entrap? 

Woodruff. You tell me he has. 

Diana. I did not say that. Uncle Ben, you've 
lived many years. You've dealt with human nature in 
the confessional. You know that in these cases the 
woman is the stronger. It's the woman who gives the 
man the courage to dare — or he does not dare. 

Woodruff. Women are led by their emotions. You 
were. 

Diana. And what are men led by? But let's talk 
of what now is. I don't blame him — at least I try not 
to. I put him to too severe a test. 

Woodruff. You did, indeed, Diana. 

Diana. He's been fighting against being influenced 
by his education — by his surroundings, by what all his 
world feels and says. But in spite of himself he is 
influenced. 



82 THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

Woodruff. Naturally — naturally. 

Diana. And when his mother was pleading with 
him to give me up, I know now it was this that was 
her secret ally, that made him falter — and doubt him- 
self — and doubt me. But the fact remains that he 
feels toward me as — as you'd feel toward a woman 
who had done what I have done. He feels [with sad 
bitterness^ that he has got all I have to give — what 
you men always think. How contemptible women are 
in your eyes ! 

Woodruff. Contemptible ? 

Diana. [After a pause.'] Yes, contemptible. [A 
pause, then slowly.] What a man values in himself at 
less than nothing is in a woman all her worth. 

[Silence, 

Woodruff. God seems to have so ordained it. 

Diana. [Springing up, rushing toward the win- 
dows.] Not the God beyond these free skies! Not 

my God! 

[Silence. 

Woodruff. At least, this man isn't utterly depraved. 
He's not casting you off, as his sort usually do cast 
off their victims. 

Diana. Victims! I, a victim! Oh, Uncle Ben, 
why do you repeat these cant phrases? I am no vic- 
tim. I stand here in strength, not in weakness. Vic- 
tim ! What a world ! The love that trusts, that gives 
freely, is abased, while the love that doubts and cal- 
culates and first makes a bargain is exalted! 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 83 

Woodruff. My poor child — 

Diana. [Laying her hand on his arm entreatingly.'] 
Please, not that "my poor child" again. Call me 
anything you like— shameless, abandoned, but not an 
object of pity, a weak thing! Am I weeping? Ami 
maundering about my sin? Am I shirking or shifting 
consequences? I tell you, he has done me no wrong. 
He can't help being just man. . . . Either I must de- 
spise myself as what he thinks me, or despise him for 
thinking of me so. 

Woodruff. Despise yourself — despise him. I — see. 

I — see. 

Diana. Then— ought I to marry him ? Is it right f 

[Woodruff paces slowly up and down. A 
long pause. 

Woodruff. I assume he would pass out of your life 
and leave — no trace. 

Diana. [Passionately.'] That has nothing to do 
with it! 

Woodruff. [Throwing out his arms in a wild ges- 
ture.'] Diana ! Diana ! ... Oh, God, why hast Thou 
permitted this crime against this good man and his 
noble daughter ! 

Diana. Again I say, the crime is not yet. Not a 
crime; a mistake, a sorry mistake. But would it not 
become a crime if he and I, feeling as we do about 
each other, stood before God and took the marriage 
vows? 



84 THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

Woodruff. [Starting violently.'] Ah ! 
Diana. Can you marry us now? 

[Woodruff seats himself, his head resting 
upon his hands. A long pause. At length 
Woodruff rises. 

Woodruff. [Going toward her, and speaking sol- 
emnly.] In this world, my child, we have not often 
choice between right and wrong. Almost always the 
choice is between the greater evil and the lesser. 

[Diana draws her breath sharply; her fingers 
seek her throat as if she were stiMng, 

Woodruff. You will choose the lesser evil. 

Diana. The lesser evil ! A reluctant husband — 
despising me — ashamed of me — suspecting me — doubt- 
ing me, perhaps ! Afraid my child will be like me ! 

Woodruff. There is your punishment. 

Diana. Yes — my punishment — my hell ! — mln^ — 
and his — and — [she pauses, gases out in despair] — and 
my child's. 

Woodruff. [Greatly agitated by her words and ap- 
parent hesitation.] Hubert must never know. Never ! 
What agony his would be ! Diana, how could you — 
how could you ! 

Diana. [Stopping her ears with her palms.] No ! 
No! I will— I will! 

[She rushes toward veranda exit to the right. 
In the left entrance from veranda ap' 
pears Burroughs. 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 85 

Scene XV. — Woodruff — Diana — Burroughs. 

Burroughs. [Commandingly.'] Diana — one mo- 
ment. 

[Diana motions him wildly aside with an in- 
articulate cry and rushes oif. He gases 
after her, shrugs his shoidders, elevates 
his head and advances. 

Scene XVI. — Woodruff — Burroughs. 

Burroughs. [^Curtly. 1 Ah, doctor. 

[Woodruff startles, wheels abruptly and 
frowns at Burroughs, who returns his 
gaze with open defiance. 

Burroughs. They want me to wait here. The cere- 
mony is to be in the parlor — in there. [^Indicates doors 
to left, seats himself on sofa to left, drums on it ner- 
vously.'] Make it brief as possible, please. 

Woodruff. Sir ! 

Burroughs. Cut the ceremony short. 

Woodruff. You are disrespectful. 

Burroughs. ICarelessly.'] Beg pardon. I meant 
no disrespect. ^Notes Woodruff's steady gaze — grows 
still more restless — glares at him — springs up.] By 
God! 

Woodruff. Sir ! 

Burroughs. [Advancing to him and looking him 
in the eyes.] Why do you stare at me? Is it be- 



86 THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

cause — [Laughs in angry scorn.] So, she has told ! 
A hell of a mess — 

[Reenter Diana at right. She is cold, calm 
and stately. 

Scene XVII. — Diana — Burroughs— Woodruff. 

Burroughs. You have told himl 

Diana. [With contempt.'] The secret is mine. It's 
always the woman's, you know — the victim's. 

Burroughs. [Stung to fury.] My position gives 
me the right to demand, and I do demand, that you 
shall not chatter about, to your own discredit. 

Diana. Discredit? 

Burroughs. Discredit. You will remember that 
you are going to be my wife. 

Diana. Going to be your wife? Why, I thought 
I was your wife. Certainly, you said it often enough. 
It was your favorite phrase. 

Burroughs. [Beside himself.] You would do well 
not to taunt me. 

Diana. Ah, true. The fallen creature must be 
politic. Forgive me. Be patient. I shall learn. 

[Burroughs gases furiously at her. 

Woodruff. [In a low tone.] Diana! I implore 
you! 

Diana. And marriage — real marriage — is founded 
on love and truth. Love and truth ! [She laughs 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 87 

scornfully. Burroughs hangs his head and turns 
away.'] Love — and — truth \ ... [To Woodruff.] I 
want a last word with him before — before you — and 
he — purify me. 

[Exit Woodruff by door to left, with a part- 
ing look of entreaty at both. 

Scene XVIII. — Diana — Burroughs. 

Diana. [Contemptuously.} And now, sir — 

Burroughs. [Turning on her.} Do you wish me 
to hate you? 

Diana. I prefer it to the feeling you've been en- 
tertaining. 

Burroughs. My God! Have I shirked my sin 
against your father and you? Am I not doing all I 
can to wipe it out, to — 

Diana. To restore me to the ranks of the respect- 
able ? Yes. Yes. And I am deeply grateful. I hum- 
ble myself at your feet. 

Burroughs. You can't move me. I've g^ven my 
word. I'll keep it. 

Diana. Yes — ^you'll save yourself. 

Burroughs. Myself ! Do you think I fear for my 
life? 

Diana. Possibly. [Burroughs clinches his teeth 

to restrain furious speech.} But certainly you fear 

for your good name — your [with intense sarcasm} — 

your honor. Most men have your poor opinion of 

7 



88 THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

women's frailty under — Iwith mocking irony'] — temp- 
tation. If this — this — escapade — [he winces] — of 
yours — should become a scandal, what would men say 
of — you? . . . Even your mother — 

Burroughs. Leave my mother out of this! 

Diana. Pardon. I must not take the name of a 
good woman upon my lips until I have been purified. 
[With abrupt change to haughtiness.] But, we waste 
time. I came to tell you what I purpose to do. I 
marry you because I must, just as you marry me be- 
cause you must. 

Burroughs. That is not true — not as you put it. 

Diana. Tell me — if you were entirely free, would 
you marry me to-day? 

Burroughs. I've told you that — 

Diana. Yes or no? 

Burroughs. I've explained to you — 

Diana. No. And, after you had been living in 
those sewers of conventional hypocrisy again for a 
year, breathing only their poisons, with never a breath 
of the fresh, pure air of sincerity — would you marry 
me ? [A brief pause. Burroughs looks down.] Let's 
not lie — to ourselves, at least. You marry me only 
because you must. I marry you for the sake of — 
[She falters, regains self-control.] But I shall not go 
away with you. You have been my husband. The 
marriage is dissolved. This ceremony will be a form 
— nothing more. You will stop the night under this 
roof — that must be. But to-morrow you leave here 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 89 

alone, and I shall take care that I never see you 
again. 

[She is facing him, erect, calm. At her last 
words Burroughs starts hack, then stands 
gazing at her, his shoulders heaving with 
passion. 
Burroughs. Not so fast ! Not so fast ! It's true, 
when I went away from you to that cold, formal home 
of mine, I did begin to doubt my memory of you — 
Diana. ^Jeering.'] At last, at last — the truth. 
Burroughs. Your anger sets me on fire. You are 
superb ! I never wanted you so ! Leave here alone ? 
No ! When you take my name I take you. [Diana 
shudders, shrinks.'} I've got to have you. You've 
been mine — [Fiercely, triumphantly.'} Yes, mine ! 
And you shall continue to be mine. 
Diana. Never ! 

Burroughs. You shall ! {Rushes toward her.} 
You are mine ! 

Diana. [Standing her ground.} Never! 
Burroughs. You are mine ! [He seises her in his 
arms.} Mine ! Do you hear ? Mine ! Do you under- 
stand ? 

[After a fierce struggle Diana releases her- 
self, rushes to doors at left, flings them 
open. 
Diana. [Panting and beside herself.} Father! 

[Enter from the left Merivale, Phyllis, 
Dagmar, Woodruff. They gaze in 



90 THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

amazement from Burroughs, standing 
dazed at sofa to right, to Diana, at small 
table to left, with blazing eyes and surg- 
ing bosom, pointing at Burroughs. 

Scene XIX. — Diana — Burroughs — Merivale — 
Phyllis — Dagmar — Woodruff. 

Diana. Father, I will not marry this man! 

Burroughs. ^Coming forward defiantly, 1^ I say 
she shall ! 

Merivale. Diana, what is it? 

Phyllis. [Seizing Diana by the armJ] Oh, Di — 

Diana. [Releasing herself and approaching her 
father."] I shall not marry him. I wish him to leave 
the house at once. 

Burroughs. She shall marry me. She is mine! 

Diana. Yours ? Not I. I am free ! 

Merivale. Diana, what's the meaning of this? 

Phyllis. Don't listen to her ! She — 

Diana. Enough ! Father, hear me ! Two months 
ago this man and I became husband and wife — in the 
sight of God. I took him — gave myself. 

[Profound sensation, Merivale starts, gazes 
from Diana to Burroughs, to Diana 
again. Phyllis clasps her hands de- 
spairingly. Dagmar turns threateningly 
toward Burroughs, who sees only Diana. 

Diana. I took him — I gave myself because I 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 91 

thought him a man — a man like you. And in the 
blindness and folly of my love, I felt as my dead 
mother felt when she lived in your arms. 

[Merivale staggers. Woodruff attempts to 
help him, but he pushes him aside, seats 
himself on the sofa to left, sitting rigidly 
erect, 
Merivale. Go on, Diana. 

Diana. Father, I thought him like you. But, thank 
God, I found him out in time. And so I am saving 
myself from this man who said he loved me while in 
his heart he was despising me. I was about to marry 
him. But I see now my first instinct was right. I 
was wronging you — was false to all you taught me. 
Forgive me, and send him from our sight ! 

\^A pause. Then Merivale slowly rises and 
faces Burroughs. 
Merivale. Begone ! 
Woodruff. Bertie ! — 
Burroughs. I shall not go without her. 
Phyllis. Father — in a few months the world 
would know our dishonor. 
Dagmar. Good God! 

[Merivale looks round dazedly. Finally his 
eyes rest upon Diana, standing with 
bowed head. 
Merivale. [Brokenly.^ Oh, Diana. My poor 
Diana ! 



93 THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

Diana. IStraightening herself haughtilyJ] You, 
too, father! You, too! 

Merivale. [Striking his cane sharply upon the 
Hoor.'] Woodruff! Marry them at once! 

Burroughs. That is all I ask. 

Merivale. Silence, sir! 

Diana. [Calm and inHexible.'] I shall not marry 
him. 

Merivale. [Sternly.'] Either you marry him or he 
dies. [To Dagmar.] What say you, my son? 

Dagmar. [Quietly.'] Of course. 

Burroughs. [Snapping his fingers.] That for 
threats ! This woman belongs to me. I will have her. 

Diana. Do you hear, father? — do you hear? He 
calls me his property ! 

Merivale. Marry him, or he dies. 

[Diana looks from face to face — at Wood- 
ruff, at Dagmar, at Phyllis, Unally at 
her father. 

Diana. I have no friends here — none. All — all, 
enemies. All, cowards. You pretend to love me; yet 
you would sacrifice me through fear of the sneers of 
strangers. You would force me to lie — to lie before 
God! 

Merivale. [Gentle hut iirm.] You forget, Diana. 
You have brought this upon yourself. 

Diana. You ask me to atone for an error with a 
crime. . . . But I shall not do it. And you will not 
kill him — for, it was I who gave, not he who took. 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 93 

and it is I who refuse the " honorable reparation " he 
presses on us. 

Merivale. You shall marry him ! 
Diana. You do not ask it— not your real self— 
not the father who taught me to be fearless and truth- 
ful, to hold my own respect for myself dearer than 
the opinion of all the world beside. ... No lie has 
soiled my lips or smirched my soul. I am a pure 
woman. What this man did not, could not do — what 
no man could do — ^you, my father, ask me to do. You 
ask your daughter to dishonor herself. 

Merivale. Diana, it must be. For your own sake. 
I am thinking only of you. 

[Diana draws herself slowly up, faces her 

father. 

Diana. Look at me, daddy! {Their eyes meet.'] 

... If there were no one in the world but just you 

and me and that man— would you then demand that 

I marry him? 

[^ pause, all watching the father and daugh- 
ter as they gaze at each other. 
Diana. {Very slowly.] Was what you taught me 
— false"^ Do you tell your daughter to — /t^? 

[Silence, all watching Merivale, except Bur- 
roughs. He is gazing at Diana as if he 
were seeing a vision that dazed and daz- 
zled him. At last Merivale stands tall 
and straight. 



94 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 



Merivale. You are right. [Opens his arms toward 
Diana.] You are right — [extends his amis toward 
her'\ — my daughter ! 

[He encircles her with his arms, A pause, 

Merivale. [To Burroughs, calmly and restrained- 
ly."] You see, sir, you have no place here. 

[Burroughs slowly, as if dazed and blinded, 
moves toward veranda, left. He turns, 
crushed and haggard, Merivale and 
Diana look proudly at him and Merivale 
draws Diana more closely into his arms. 
Exit Burroughs. 



Curtain. 



ACT IV 

Diana's sitting room, the same evening. To the right, 
double doors into her bedroom; to the left a door 
into the hall. At the rear, the wide balcony that 
encircles the second story of the house. Along 
its railing creepers, an edge of planted flowers, 
with potted plants on the pillars. The window 
doors opening upon the balcony are very wide. 
Instead of curtains there are broad light-green 
valences, matching the walls and upholstery. The 
background is the tops of the trees with HreHies 
winking among the branches, and the clear, starry 
night sky. In the room, to the left, near a desk, 
a great lamp on a tall, slender pedestal gives a 
sufficient but not brilliant light. The furniture is 
simple, comfortable, tasteful — including bookcases, 
racks of guns and fishing tackle. Phyllis in din- 
ner dress enters by balcony window doors. As 
she is knocking at Diana's bedroom doors. Dag- 
mar appears from the balcony. He is dressed as 
before. 

Dagmar. [Softly yet sharply. "^ Phyl ! [Phyllis 
turns. li And you promised you'd keep away from her. 
Phyllis. Did you find him? 
95 



96 THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

Dagmar. Not yet. 

Phyllis. What shall we do? 

Dagmar. Don't get tragic. Be human and sen- 
sible. Stay on the ground. There's nothing in life 
that calls for stilts. ... He didn't take the train. 
That means a lot. 

Phyllis. Maybe we're mistaken. Maybe he did. 

Dagmar. With you watching it? A fly couldn't 
have got aboard without your seeing. What a stupid 
thing it was for us to do — dash to the station after 
him. It's perfectly obvious, if he were the sort that 
would have gone, he ought to have been let go, and 
good riddance. We'll make a mess of things, Phyl, 
with our meddling, if we don't look out. 

Phyllis. Go away and let me talk to her. What 
a fool she is ! What a fool ! 

Dagmar. You didn't think so this afternoon. 

Phyllis. Oh, for a moment. But I soon came to 

my senses. _ _ ^ , _ , , 

IGoes toward Diana s door, 

Dagmar. Let her alone. You'll ruin any chance 
there may be to straighten things out. 

Phyllis. I must bring her to her senses. 

Dagmar. Di's not such a fool after all — that's my 
opinion on second thought. 

Phyllis. What are you talking about? 

Dagmar. You were right at first — though from a 
wrong reason — a sentimental reason. That's the way 
with you women. When you're right, it's always in 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 97 

the wrong way. It was so with Di. She did the sen- 
sible thing — though she didn't mean to. 

Phyllis. Sensible ! 

Dagmar. Sensible. And you'd see it, if you women 
weren't brought up without any real notion of per- 
sonal pride, but simply for the matrimonial market. 
[Phyllis turns impatiently away. Dagmar detains 
her.'] Now, listen to me. Suppose she'd married him 
when he was thinking himself so grand and superior — 
what kind of a life would she have had? The worst 
possible — the very worst. No, he had to be brought 
up standing. And she did it — good and proper. 

Phyllis. [Somewhat calmed.] That sounds well. 
But . . . That scoundrel ! 

Dagmar. There you go again ! Not a scoundrel — 
just an everyday case of — 

Phyllis. You men! You stick up for each other 
in the face of anything! 

Dagmar. As men go. Burroughs is — 

{Enter by door, left, Merivale, erect, vig- 
orous. 

Phyllis. [Depressed by his evident cheerfulness.] 
Father ! Father ! 

Merivale. [Shaking his head in good-humored re- 
buke.] I suppose you'll never learn that worldliness 
isn't wisdom. Go away now. I wish to talk with 
your sister. 

Phyllis. Father — I hope you at least won't — 

Merivale. [In a tone of finality.] Enough. 



98 THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

Dagmar. Come, Phyl. [Phyllis hesitates.^ Come ! 

[Exit Phyllis followed by Dagmar. Meri- 

VALE looks hesitatingly at Diana's doors. 

Woodruff. I0utside,'\ Is your father in there, 

Phyllis? 

Phyllis. [Outside, her voice not yet under con- 
trolJ] Yes, doctor. But he's — 
Merivale. Come in, Ben. 

[Enter Woodruff. 

Woodruff. I thought I heard your step in the hall. 
[They shake hands affectionately.^ How is Diana? 

Merivale. I haven't seen her. I've only just come 
up. [Woodruff turns to leave,'] No, don't go yet. 

Woodruff. I've been hoping she'd send for me. 

Merivale. She hasn't even asked for me yet. I'm 
hesitating whether to disturb her. Ben, I've been 
dreaming the years away among my books — ^walking 
through the scenes of sorrow and suffering and failure 
called history. My girl has awakened me — ^my girl 
with her splendid, vivid sense of right. 

Woodruff. Splendid, indeed. But — 

[He shakes his head doubtfully. 

Merivale. You were not convinced? 

Woodruff. Convinced? It was impossible not to 
be. And yet — [Shakes his head.] What a pity the 
world didn't see what we saw this afternoon. Ah, 
Bertie, life isn't a matter of occasional great moments 
but of petty hours and days. 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 



99 



Merivale. [Laying his hand cheerfully on Wood- 
ruff's shoulder. 2 If we let the light of the great 
moment illuminate those hours and days, they may not 
be so petty— eh, Ben? 

Woodruff. They will not be ! . . . What an inspi- 
ration courage is ! . . . What a revelation of woman- 
hood! . . . Bertie, I doubt not that young man has 
been awakened, too — awakened from the thoughtless- 
ness of youth. [Merivale clutches his cane, his face 
darkens, he half turns away.'] I'll say no more. For- 
give me for saying so much. [Merivale lays his hand 
affectionately on Woodruff's shoulder. The two smile 
at each other.} Why, Bertie, you look ten years 
younger than when I came this morning. And I 

feared — ^..^ ^ 

[He pauses. 

Merivale. [Smiling.] Feared Fd be broken? Be- 
cause I find I've a daughter too proud and too brave 
to lie at any cost? 

Woodruff. [Smiling.] What a man you are ! 

Merivale. And what a heart you've got ! 

Woodruff. God bless you! See Diana and talk 
with her. 

Merivale. If I can without intruding. 

Woodruff. Well, I'll take a turn round the garden 
before going to bed. 

[Woodruff turns to go by door to left. 

Merivale. You can go this way. By the balcony 
stairs. It's shorter. 



loo THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

Woodruff. To be sure. [At window door.'] What 
a wonderful night. 

Merivale. The moon will soon be up. 
Woodruff. Good night. 
Merivale. Good night, Ben. 

lExit Woodruff. Merivale hesitates before 
Diana's doors, then taps softly on the 
floor several times with his cane. 
Diana. [Within.'] Yes, daddy. 

[Enter D:ana, in a Howing white negligee, 
very simple, with graceful lines, 
Merivale. I'm not intruding? 
Diana. You? No, indeed. Why, father, how 
bright your face is ! 

Merivale. For the best of reasons. 
Diana. Really? . . . Really? 
Merivale. [With his hands on her shoulders.] I'm 
proud of my daughter — my grown-up daughter. Fd 
been thinking of you as still a child. And — this 
afternoon — I looked and — you are a woman — what a, 
woman ! 

[Diana shakes her head rather sadly. 
Merivale. It's easy, my daughter, to face shot and 
shell. Countless millions have done that. But all 
alone, to challenge hypocrisies the whole world wor- 
ships, face in the dust — there's courage ! 

Diana. I'm not brave. I'm even weak. W^eak ! 

[He seats himself on the sofa, she walks 
slowly and aimlessly up and down. 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN loi 

Merivale. No, no, my dear. 
Diana. Then why this— this desolation! 
Merivale. You still love him? 
Diana. It is weak— isn't it? 

[Merivale takes her hand tenderly. Then, 
his face grows stern. Diana glances at 
him. 
Diana. Daddy, you mustn't blame him— not alto- 
gether. It was the fault of your willful daughter, too 
— the equal fault. 

Merivale. Generous. Brave. 
Diana. {Shaking her head.'] No — neither. I 
didn't refuse this afternoon because I was brave, but 
—because I loved him. ... Do you understand? 

Merivale. {After reHecting.] Yes, dear— I under- 
stand. 

Diana. And that's why I haven't forgiven him. 

[Diana struggles for self-control, then bursts 
into tears, burying her face in her father's 
arms. 

Merivale. Diana — if — 

Diana. It's for the happiness that might have been 
—the happiness that could never be— unless love loved 
freely and loved all. [She regains self-control.'] Oh, 
if he had only loved me ! 

Merivale. The shadow will pass. 

Diana. It all rests with me, father, doesn't it? 

Merivale. You live in the real world, dear— the 



102 THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

world that's called unreal — the world within. And 

you're at peace with that. But — ^„ , . 

IHe hesitates. 

Diana. Yes, father? 

Merivale. My daughter mustn't forget she has to 
live in the other world, too — that the world beyond 
our hills will punish her. 

Diana. I know. I've thought of that — all of it. 
This afternoon Uncle Ben said to me : " There isn't 
often choice between absolute right and wrong. It's 
almost always choice between the greater evil and the 
lesser." ... I have chosen the lesser evil. [Meri- 
vale nods emphatically.'] But — there's something 
else. 

Merivale. You mean — 

Diana. Yes, father — my child. I chose the lesser 

evil for it, too. Nothing — nothing — could be so bad 

for it as a father who didn't respect its mother, a 

mother who had lost her self-respect. Nothing — 

nothing:! But — 

[A pause. 

Merivale. Yes — dear ? 

Diana. By and by — when it is old enough to 
judge — [agitated] — when it does judge — me . . . will 
it justify me? . . . That doubt will be my torment. 

[Merivale rises, moves to window door, 
gases out. The moon rises, sharply 
lighting up his features. Diana joins 
him, and they stand there together. A 
long silence. 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 103 

Diana. Good night, father. 

IThey go to the door, to left, and embrace. 

Merivale. Good night, dear. 

Diana. Good night — daddy. 

[They embrace lingeringly. Exit Merivale. 
Diana slowly returns to window, pauses 
there in the moonlight, sighs heavily, 
goes to her desk, seats herself. She 
takes out of a drawer, reads and tears 
up several letters, with increasing an- 
guish. She reads one that moves her be- 
yond her power to control. She returns it 
to the drawer, closes the drawer. Then, 
with swift movements, she snatches it, 
tears it up, sends the fragments to join 
the others in the waste basket. She rises, 
gases out into the moonlight, grows 
calmer. She goes toward her bedroom 
door, pauses to extinguish the lamp. As 
she turns away, a slight sound on the bal- 
cony startles her. She advances boldly 
toward the window doors, to see the cause. 
Burroughs appears, pauses just beyond 
the threshold. His dress shows some 
dishevelment and dust. He looks dis- 
tinctly less the boy, more the man — sub- 
dued, humbled, but resolute. 
Burroughs. Diana, ^^ advances. 

8 *■ 



104 THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

Diana. [Rigid, cold.] You will not cross that 
threshold. 

Burroughs. [Firmly, quietly.'] Diana, I've come 
as you told me to come. 

Diana. I? I told you to go. 

Burroughs. IHis manner subdued, respectful, yet 
insistent.] Once, when we were very, very happy — 
it was on just such a night as this — you told me if 
ever anything — no matter what — should estrange us — 
you told me to come to you — to make you listen to me, 
no matter how you might try to prevent — you told 
me to come to you, face to face, and say "Diana, I 
love you." Do you remember? 

Diana. [Self -controlled with an effort.] I remem- 
ber. Now, you will go. 

Burroughs. Go? . . . Where? . . . Where in all 
this world can I go? 

Diana. [Moving still farther from him.] You 
dare come here — here of all places — 

Burroughs. [Interrupting.] Yes — here where I 
learned what I now know was love's primer lesson. 
Remember, Diana — remember every moment of those 
wonderful hours together — recall my every look and 
word. Is there one — one— thB.t does not cry out, " I 
love you." 

Diana. But in your heart — 

Burroughs. No — no — not in my heart. My heart 
was yours — all yours. I loved you all the time — al- 
ways — ^utterly. From the first instant I saw you, for 



THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 



105 



me you stood apart from all the world — as the only 
woman — the one woman. Yes — I loved you. You 
know I loved you. 

Diana. No — no ! You — 

Burroughs. [Solemnly.l Yes. For better, for 
worse. You were mine, I yours. But I didn't — 
couldn't — realize what you were. I knew you were a 
treasure. My eyes told me that — all my senses. But 
I never thought to look farther — deeper — and find you. 

[Diana trembles, but remains with her back 
to him, he several paces from her. 

Burroughs. I valued you. But, oh, my God, how 
I undervalued! Why, not even my own mother ever 
made me realize that woman, womanhood — is not 
body, but mind and heart — soul ! This afternoon you 
showed us all what woman can mean. Diana, I was 
dazed, crushed. I went away hopeless. In the woman 
I loved I had seen the woman I adored. 

[Diana gives a faint suppressed cry, but does 
not turn. He advances a step, bnt only 
a step. 

Burroughs. This afternoon your father said to me, 
** Love her, Julian. Her nature is a vein of gold." I 
thought I knew what he meant. But he didn't know 
himself. No one could have — until — I see you again 
as you stood there in all the glory of womanhood. 
Oh, Diana, if you were not so sweet, so tender, so 
human, I'd be afraid to venture to tell you of my love 



io6 THE WORTH OF A WOMAN 

now. But you are tender. You are sweet and for- 
giving. Diana — forgive me — believe me! 

Diana. [Turning and gasing earnestly, hesitating- 
ly at himJ] Oh, I want to believe — I want to believe ! 
Burroughs. [Extending his hands in manly ap- 
pealJ] Diana — forgive — believe. I love you — all of 
you — you, 

[She advances a step toward him, 
Diana. You are surel 
Burroughs. I am sure. 

[She slozvly gives him her hands. He puts 
them together, bends and respectfully 
kisses them. A brief pause. 
Burroughs. May I — may I come to-morrow? 
Diana. [Softly.'] To-morrow. 

[She holding her hands, they go to the win^ 
dow door, pause on the threshold. He 
hesitatingly puts his arm round her, 
touches his lips to hers, releases her, ex- 
cept one hand. 
Burroughs. [Going.] Diana — my wife — I love 
you. 

Diana. You do — ^now — ^Julian. 



Curtain. 



A POINT OF LAW 



A POINT OF LAW 

A Dramatic Incident 

The Library " at Colonel Pickett's — an old South- 
ern country house near Bloody Ground. The long 
windows open upon a superb view of wooded hills 
and pasture lands. On the walls are colored prints 
of English hunting, racing, and coaching scenes, 
framed photographs of horses, an oil painting of a 
most aristocratic black stallion. There is but one 
bookcase; it contains a jumble of books on horses, 
cattle, sports, theology, and a few college text- 
books. 

Against the writing table leans Colonel Pick- 
ett's young daughter, Genevieve. She has a 
fresh, brilliant skin, an innocent, cheerful, pretty 
face. She is looking admiringly and lovingly at 
Anita Holcombe, leaning against the window 
frame and gazing wistfully toward the hills. Mrs. 
Holcombe is handsome, is about thirty years old, 
has upon her youthful features the shadow of 
melancholy experience. She is wearing a pink- 
and-white dress as simple as Genevieve's white 
109 



no A POINT OF LAW 

muslifij but fashionable. In her big white hat are 
two great plumes, the ends just touched with a 
delicate shade of pink. She is swinging absently 
a pink-and-white chiffon sunshade. 

Anita. [Drawing a long breath.'] How peaceful 
and restful it is here — how innocent! 

Genevieve. One gets so tired of peace and rest — 
and innocence. How I do long for something to 
happen ! 

Anita. [Looking at her sadly.] And I — if I could 
feel sure that nothing would happen — that life would 
just flow tranquilly on and on, like this. 

Genevieve. You're saying that to console me. 

Anita. The truth won't make any impression on 
you. I shouldn't have believed at your age. I'm 
afraid you'll learn only too soon that in this world 
happenings are mostly suffering — or are paid for in 
suffering. A little intense pleasure — and you pay with 
intense pain — anxieties, disappointments, regrets. 

Genevieve. I'd risk it. If that's what's made you 
look as you do, I'd want it! 

Anita. Don't — please don't! 

Genevieve. Forgive me. I didn't intend to hurt 
you. Only — I meant it! And you won't forget your 
promise to have me visit you in New York. [Anita 
startles, looks away confusedly.] You won't — 
please ? 

Anita. No — no. I'll not forget. 



A POINT OF LAW in 

Genevieve. I've never seen New York. But I — 
love it! Things happen there. Will it be soon? 

Anita. \With embarrassment.'] I — I hope so. 
But you mustn't count on it. You see, our plans — 
they're always unsettled. Vincent and I are wan- 
derers — to Europe and back — to his place in Penn- 
sylvania — ^perhaps here again when the house is 
rebuilt. 

Genevieve. What a glorious life ! How happy you 
must be ! And maybe once in a while you'll hold me 
up to the window so that I can get a breath or two 
of freedom. 

Anita. Freedom ! 

Genevieve. Of course, I'm sorry your house 
burned, but — I simply can't help being glad, too. If 
it hadn't been for the fire I might never have known 
you. Why, we didn't even know Mr. Holcombe had 
a wife— I don't mind telling you now. When we 
sent over to invite him here because we feared he 
had no place to go, we were so surprised to learn 
about you. And then — ^you came. These three weeks 
have been the very happiest of my life. 

Anita. [Embarrassed, color high.'] But I hadn't 
ever been to Vincent's place here till this summer. 
I came only three days before the fire, dear — you re- 
member. And then, too — 

Genevieve. [Helplessly.] Oh, it wasn't really 
strange. Mr. Holcombe only bought here a year ago, 
wasn't it? And we knew him just a little. But — 



112 A POINT OF LAW 

we'd talked about him — ^you know how people will. 
And we decided he was a bachelor. 
Anita. [IVitk a forced laugh J] A bachelor! 
Genevieve. He didn't look married. But then, 
neither do you. 
Anita. Genevieve ! 

Genevieve. Married women always look so staid 
and — kind of sloppy. While you — What a beautiful 
wonderful surprise you were — 

A Man's Voice. IFrom the direction of the ve- 
randaJ] Miss Viva. 

Genevieve. There's the gardener — about the flow- 
ers for you. 

[Genevieve kisses Anita^ rushes out — and 
into the arms of Vincent Holcombe, 
who is coming along the veranda from 
the left. 
Holcombe. [Releasing her lingeringly.'\ Good 
morning, wild rose. 
Genevieve. Good morning, Mr. Holcombe. 

{She laughs, blushes, rushes oif. Enter Hol- 
combe, in striped Uannels. He is a cyni- 
cal, dissipated-looking man of forty, good- 
humored, selfish, spoiled. 
Holcombe. Pretty child — that. How nice chil- 
dren are to look at — and what a bore when they begin 
to prattle. . . . [As Anita seats herself. 1 Why so 
glum? And what are you planning there on the car- 
pet with the tip of your parasol? 



A POINT OF LAW 



"3 



Anita. ISmiling.'l Something against you. 

HoLCOMBE. [Lighting a cigarette.'^ Well — good 
luck! 

Anita. Vincent, I haven^t spoken to you about — 
it — for nearly two years — and — 

HoLcoMBE. [Irritably.'] Good business! Don't 

speak of it for two years more. [Looks at her with 

cynical admiration.'] What a beauty you are, Anita 1 

I often wonder what the secret of your fascination for 

me is. n^» ,,.,,,, • 

[Shakes his head, laughing. 

Anita. [Passionately.] Since you love me, how 
can you — 

HoLcoMBE. Now — don't! I'm not going to give 
you the whip hand just yet. 

Anita. [Imploringly.] Vincent — 

HoLCOMBE. [Angrily.] No use — not the slightest. 
Why break out when we're getting on so comfort- 
ably? You know it irritates me. Things are well 
enough as they are — for the present. Of course, 
some day — 

[He wanders about the room, examining the 
pictures. 
Anita. Why do I speak again? Because a crisis 
is almost here. I've always been open and fair with 
you. 

HoLCOMBE. Rather useless to be anything else. 
I'm not easy to trick. 
Anita. So? . . . Well, anyhow, I wish to give 



114 ^ POINT OF LAW 

you a chance. Vincent [she rises and faces hint], 
you know how I must feel — here. When I see the 
dear old colonel or that sweet, pure girl coming, it 
seems to me I ought to be wearing a sign and ringing 
a bell — like those lepers we saw at Smyrna. Oh, 
dear — 

HoLCOMBE. What bally rot ! Besides, you oughtn't 
to care about anybody but me. That's true love — 
isn't it? No, you can't work on my sympathies to 
get the whip hand — 

[He breaks off as Colonel Pickett enters 
by the door to the right. The colonel is 
a Southern gentleman of the antebellum 
school, tall and straight, with white hair, 
mustache, imperial, and aggressive eye- 
brows. He is carefully dressed in white 
linen. He shows plainly that he is a 
simple man — both lamb and lion — a be- 
liever in love and also in hate. 
Colonel Pickett. [With a courtly bow to Anita.] 
Always dazzling — and always in a new way. I've 
been urging Holcombe to stay on and let us have you 
a little longer. 

Anita. Thank you, colonel. But even if Vincent 
didn't have to go, we'd leave for very shame. Think ! 
We've been here three weeks, practically self-invited. 
Colonel Pickett. Now don't say that, ma'am. 
Why, I feel as if you were one of my daughters — 
'pon honor, I do. And Viva — it's been a great pleas- 



A POINT OF LAW I15 

ure to me, ma'am, to see how you and she have grown 
to love each other. 

Genevieve. [Entering with a rush from door to 
left.'] Isn't it dreadful ! Jennie and Bertha have come 
over, and I can't get rid of them for an hour at least. 
[Links her arm through Anita's.] And this our last 
day together ! 

[Anita trembles, draws hack, glances uneas- 
ily at the colonel, then at Holcombe, who 
is seated, reading "The Turf." She 
shyly kisses Genevieve. 
Genevieve. I'll free myself as soon as ever I can. 
Then, by that time, you'll be through with your busi- 
ness. 

[She kisses Anita. On her way toward door 
to right her father pats her affection- 
ately. 
Colonel Pickett. You see, Holcombe, how your 
wife has won us all. 

Genevieve. [At door.] Indeed she has! 

[Exit, throwing a kiss at Anita. 
Colonel Pickett. Trust a good woman to recog- 
nize another good woman. 

[Anita, embarrassed, glances nervously at 
Holcombe. He is apparently absorbed in 
his paper, but his face wears a broad grin 
of cynical amusement. Anita notes it, 
compresses her lips, turns to the colonel. 



n6 A POINT OF LAW 

Anita. Your daughter is a beautiful girl, colonel 
— in face as in character — and so beautifully inno- 
cent. 

Colonel Pickett. She is, indeed, ma'am. She's 
been raised in our old-fashioned way. We know only 
two kinds of women — innocent ones and bad ones — 
just as we know only two kinds of men — gentlemen 
and scoundrels. 

Anita. [Looking at Holcombe.] Gentlemen and 

— scoundrels. ^^^ . . , . , • 

[Holcombe twists in his chair. 

Colonel Pickett. That's it, ma'am. And we don't 
tolerate either bad women or bad men. In that way 
we keep our community up to the mark. 

Anita. Vincent ! 

Holcombe. [Looking up calmly.l Yes, my love. 

Anita. Don't you think the colonel's very inter- 
esting ? 

Holcombe. I'm sorry, I didn't hear. 

Colonel Pickett. No, ma'am — no, sir — we in this 
part of the world don't turn our honor over to the 
keeping of lagging courts and shystering lawyers. 
[Enter Jessop.] Ah, Jessop! — at last! And just as I 
was talking of lawyers — paying my respects to them. 

[Jessop enters the room from the veranda. 
In spite of the heat he is in Hack broad- 
cloth. He is carrying a black bag which 
Anita notes and fastens her eyes upon as 
if it fascinated her. 



A POINT OF LAW 



ll^ 



Jessop. Good day, madam. Good day, colonel. 
Good day, Mr. Holcombe. I hope I've not kept you 
waiting. 

[He puts the bag on the table, draws a bun- 
dle of papers from it. 
Colonel Pickett. I suppose you've left the deed 
behind. 

Jessop. No — here it is. I've not forgotten any- 
thing. 

[He hands the deed to Colonel Pickett, who 
glances through it indifferently. 
Colonel Pickett. No doubt, it's all right. Yes — 
yes — sixty-seven acres. Yes — yes — seven thousand 
nine hundred and fifty-three dollars — yes — yes — it 
seems all right. Let Holcombe look at it. Here, Hol- 
combe. 

Holcombe. [Taking the deed.l Oh, Fm sure it's 
correct. No use my reading it. 

[He goes to the window and reads with the 
greatest care, Anita watching him with 
repressed excitement. 
Jessop. Have you got the check ready, colonel. 
Colonel Pickett. No — bless my soul. I've no 
memory left. 

[He seats himself at the table, takes a check 
book from the drawer, writes. 
Anita. [In a queer voice.'] I think I'll go, Mr. 
Jessop, while you gentlemen are arranging your busi- 
ness. 



ii8 A POINT OF LAW 

Jessop. No, indeed, madam. We can't spare you. 
HoLCOMBE. \_Coming from window.'] Fearful jum- 
ble of words, Jessop. And what's Anita got to do 
with it? 

[Anita clasps her hands before her. Her ex- 
pression is tense, expectant. 

Jessop. Why — as I explained to her yesterday — in 
this state — almost everywhere, I think — the wife also 
must sign a deed. You see, she has her dower right 
in real estate. 

HoLCOMBE. Oh — [He laughs.] To be sure. How 
stupid of me ! I forgot. 

Colonel Pickett. Ready, Holcombe? 

HoLCOMBE. Let's get it over with. 

Jessop. But we must have two witnesses. 

Colonel Pickett. I certainly am aging! I prefer 
white men as witnesses. So, we'll have to wait. Ex- 
cuse me while I telephone Moberley and Brown to 
come up from the stables. 

[Exit Colonel Pickett hy door to left. Jes- 
sop busies himself at table with his pa- 
pers. Anita stands in front of her hus- 
band and close to him. 

Anita. Vincent — ^please say you will — voluntarily. 
Please ! 

Holcombe. Oh, I see — I see. You're threatening 
me with a scene. You wish me to think you'll refuse 
to sign if I don't gratify your vanity — for that's all 



A POINT OF LAW 119 

it is — vanity! But I know you'll make no scene. 
You'll sign, all right. You're far too sensible to stake 
in a losing game. 

Anita. No — you're wrong. But — you'll see. How 
is it possible for such a combination to exist in one 
man — such petty baseness and such — 

[She sighs, sobs, turns away. 
Colonel Pickett. [Entering from left.l I'm very, 
very sorry, ma'am. It'll be five or ten minutes before 
they come. 
Anita. What does it matter? 

[She sits at the table, takes up the deed, 
glances through it. 
Anita. [Smiling at Colonel Pickett.] All this 
reminds me of a queer story. You know, colonel, 
Vincent and I wander about a great deal — meet all 
sorts of people — some of them very unusual. There 
was a man — I'll call him Smith — as it's just possible 
you might know him if I gave his real name. He 
was a business friend of Vincent's. I'd often seen 
him at the races with a woman I supposed was his 
wife. They kept to themselves always. 

[HoLCOMBE, who is at the window, wheels 
about and stares at Anita. The colonel 
and Jessop are so seated that they do not 
see him. 
Anita. [Returning Holcombe's stare with a defiant 
smile."] You remember them, Vincent? 
Holcombe. Can't say I do. 



I20 A POINT OF LAW 

Anita. Oh, yes. Why, colonel, he knows the story 
by heart. We've often talked of it. I really ought to 
apologize to him for making him listen to it again. 
Well — once, when we were crossing — Mediterranean 
way, wasn't it — ^Vincent? — Smith and the supposed 
Mrs. Smith were on the steamer. She was a poor 
sailor and so am I. It happened that our chairs were 
side by side on deck. Lying there, each almost against 
the other, day after day, we fell into conversation, 
and she became extremely confidential. She told me 
about herself. It seems she came of a good family in 
the country, down in Pennsylvania — not far from 
where Vincent has a stock farm. How far apart were 
your place and her family's? 

HoLCOMBE. [Defiantly.'] About ten miles. 

Anita. She'd been brought up quite quietly and 
innocently — much as your daughter has been, colonel. 
She had married very young — seventeen, I think she 
said. Do you remember, Vincent? 

HoLCOMBE. [Glowering.'] I've forgotten. 

Anita. Well, it doesn't matter. When she was 
nineteen, and her only baby had been dead a few 
months — I forgot to say, she was a silly, romantic 
creature, full of all sorts of dreams and longings — 
and that her husband — so she said — ^was a dull, heavy 
person, meanly jealous of her, keeping her close, like 
the inmate of a harem — when there was no occasion 
for it. A few months after the baby died — ^when life 
was hideous to her, she met a handsome, generous 



A POINT OF LAW 121 

young man — what they call " man of the world." To 
her he seemed a hero straight from a romantic novel. 
We'll say his name was Smith — I'd better not give his 
real name, had I, Vincent? 

HoLcoMBE. [Struggling with his anger.l I think 
it'd be wiser not to. 

Anita. Smith, then. And Smith was always there 
when the husband wasn't, and Smith was — sympathetic 
— and loving — and plausible — perhaps in earnest in his 
fashion — and — she ran away with him. 

Colonel Pickett. It was a scoundrel trick on his 
part. Why, ma'am, she was only a child. 

Anita. Only a child. Yes, she was utterly without 
experience. She had taken her sorrows and her 
wrongs, real and fancied, like a child. He promised 
that just as soon as she was free he'd marry her. She 
believed in him. And she didn't understand that what 
she was doing was, in the eyes of the world, not a 
freak of naughtiness, but a mortal sin — the unpardon- 
able sin. 

Colonel Pickett. Pitiful! Shameful! Thank 
God, in this part of the country we know how to treat 
such a hound as that man. 

Anita. But listen, colonel — ^that is not the worst. 
She was divorced — she was free. She waited for him 
to redeem his pledge. And the weeks — the months — 
passed — and he put her off — and put her off — 
[Anita's voice trembles,] You should have heard her 
tell it, colonel. It seemed to me I was living it. I 



122 A POINT OF LAW 

could see — feel — it all — her youth — ^her ignorance — 
her aloneness — her love for the man who had won her 
heart — how she waited — then hinted — then begged — 
implored — the sleepless nights — the awful days — the 
anguish — the despair — 

[Colonel Pickett and Jessop are profoundly 
moved by Anita's thrilling voice and 
manner. Holcombe goes out upon the 
veranda. 

Anita. Don't go, Vincent. I'll be brief. 

[Holcombe sullenly returns, seats himself be- 
hind and out of sight of Colonel Pickett 
and Jessop. 

Anita. At last she realized that she was betrayed 
— that he wasn't going to redeem his promise — be- 
cause — well, perhaps a queer kind of jealousy domi- 
nated his better nature — a desire to keep her the help- 
less, abject dependent, hiding from everyone except 
him. And when she realized that he did not intend 
to keep his promise — she fled from him — though she 
loved him^fled and hid herself — got work as a shop 
girl — as a servant. 

Colonel Pickett. Splendid! Splendid! 

Jessop. A true woman, madam ! 

Anita. But, colonel — as you'll see, she wasn't a 
heroine, only a weak, loving human being. The man 
we're calling Smith — he hunted her out. When he 
found there was no other way to induce her to return 



A POINT OF LAW 



123 



he — [Anita looks strangely at Holcombe, he hides 
his face} — he married her. But, listen ! It was a 
mock marriage. 

Colonel Pickett. Infamous ! 

Anita. A year she lived in fool's paradise. Then 
— she stumbled on the truth. 

Colonel Pickett. The damned scoundrel — ^pardon, 
ma'am. And, of course, she left him? 

Anita. No. She was no heroine, as I warned 
you. She had no place to go — no friends. Her only 
hold on respectability was the mock marriage. Her 
only hope was through him — that he would some day 
do her justice. And he promised that, as soon as his 
father died, he would. But again he put her off, al- 
ways some excuse. And she — she waited and loved — 
and hoped. When he — like so many — like Vincent 
there — became a citizen of this state to avoid taxes, 
she looked into the marriage laws here. And she 
learned — ^you can tell me whether she was right, Mr. 
Jessop — She told me that under the laws of this 
state, if a man lets a woman sign any legal paper — 
a deed, for example — which implies that she has a 
lawful claim upon his estate as his wife — that makes 
her his wife. 

[Holcombe starts from his chair, smothers a 
curse, sinks back. 

Jessop. Quite right, ma'am. She'd be his wife. 

[Holcombe rises in extreme agitation. 



124 A POINT OF LAW 

Anita. Now, please, Vincent, please let me finish. 

Colonel Pickett. {Impatiently turning toward 
HoLCOMBE.] This is most interesting. I'm sure 
you'll— 

HoLCOMBE. Oh, certainly. Pardon me. 

Anita. Thank you. Colonel Pickett. Well, her 
chance came. He was selling part of his land. And 
he took her to visit at the house of the gentleman who 
wished to buy it. He was a gentleman much like your- 
self, I imagine — Smith took this woman — not his 
wife — into that gentleman's house to visit. What 
would you do, Colonel Pickett, if a man were to play 
you such a trick? — bring her into contact with your 
daughter — lay you and your family open to the 
danger of being involved in a scandal? — What would 
you do? 

Colonel Pickett. [Calmly.'] Kill him, ma'am — 
kill him like a rat or a snake. And if he escaped me, 
he'd have to reckon with my sons — and with every 
man in the connection. 

Anita. Isn't he noble, Vincent ! 

[Anita rises, goes to Colonel Pickett, kisses 
him. 

Colonel Pickett. Thank you, my dear. You got 
me all wrought up with your story. You tell it so 
well. But — I meant what I said. I'd do it — and glad 
of the chance. 

Anita. I know you would — and so would the gen- 



A POINT OF LAW 125 

tleman in my story. But — to go on with it — the man 
we're calling Smith either didn't know or had forgot- 
ten the law. And when the time came to sign — 
But I've talked enough. You finish, Vincent. What 
did Smith do? 

HoLCOMBE. [^Composed, as the colonel and Jessop 
turn toward him.'] Well, gentlemen — this man Smith, 
whose side of the story, by the way, hasn't been 
told— 

Colonel Pickett. We can guess it. Damn scoun- 
drels — pardon, ma'am — always make the same lying 
excuses. They — 

Holcombe. [Interrupting, his temper on edge.] At 
any rate, he refused to let her sign. She very stupidly 
let him see in time that he'd been trapped — 

Anita. Not stupidly, Vincent. Deliberately. 

Holcombe. At any rate, he put off the sale. 

Colonel Pickett. But didn't she up and out with 
the truth? Didn't she give the gentleman the chance 
to give the scoundrel choice between — 

Anita. No, colonel, it wasn't necessary. They 
were all assembled just as we are. She managed to 
warn him privately that she was desperate at last — 
that if he persisted in putting off the sale, she'd appeal 
to the honorable man whose hospitality he had out- 
raged. And he thought it over hurriedly and — To 
do him justice, he was always ashamed of his conduct 
toward her — He — well — he decided that he preferred 
to live. He was so fond of life and of smooth sailing 



126 A POINT OF LAW 

— wasn't he, Vincent? And he was fond of her in his 
way, don't you think so, Vincent? 

lEnter from right Moberley, Colonel Pick- 
ett's trainer, and Brown, his assistant. 
Both show signs of a recent and hasty 
toilet. They advance awkwardly. 
Jessop. Here they are. Your story just filled the 
wait, Mrs. Holcombe — and it's sound law — sound law, 
ma'am — as I explained to you yesterday. {^Spreads 
out the deed on the writing tahle.l Now, Mr. Hol- 
combe, your signature first, please. 

[Holcombe sullenly seats himself at the table. 

He pretends to read the deed again. 

There is a long silence. 

Anita. [Banteringly, with a certain hysteria.'] 

Now, colonel — really — in cool blood — do you think 

you'd kill a man for doing what Smith did in my 

story ? 

[Holcombe's hand, holding the pen, pauses 
on its way to the ink well. 
Colonel Pickett. I'd kill him, ma'am, if he had 
been my best friend. 

[Holcombe signs, rises. 
Jessop. Now, Mrs. Holcombe — just here — please — 
just below your husband's. Sign your Christian name 
— not Mrs. Ladies often start to do that. 
Anita. Are you sure you wish it, Vincent? 
Holcombe. [With a mocking how and smile.] 
Why, certainly, my dear. 



A POINT OF LAW 127 

Anita. [IVriting.] Anita — Hoi — combe. [She 
blots the signature, looks at it.'] Anita Holcombe. 

[Anita rises, turns away to the window. 

MoBERLEY and Brown sign with great 

deliberation and awkwardness. 

Colonel Pickett. Thank you, Moberley. Thank 

you, Brown. We're obliged to you. \To Jessop.] 

That's all? 

Jessop. Nothing more — except the recording. I'll 
see to that, of course. 

\He glances at the signatures, folds the deed, 
puts it in the bag on the table. Mober- 
ley and Brown bow and exeunt clum- 
sily. 
Colonel Pickett. Come, Holcombe — come, Jessop 
— we'll have to have a little refreshment, eh? 
Jessop. {With alacrity.] It is dry work. 

[Jessop follows the colonel toward the door 
to left. Holcombe remains motionless at 
the farthest window. 
Colonel Pickett. You'll excuse us, ma'am? 
Anita. {Without turning and in a muMed voice.] 
Certainly. 
Colonel Pickett. Come, Holcombe. 
Holcombe. A moment. I'll follow you. 

{Exeunt Colonel Pickett and Jessop by 
door to left. Anita turns, slowly goes to 
the table, seats herself. She begins to 
laugh. Her laugh swells into a gale — 



128 A POINT OF LAW 

hysterical^ insane. She Aings her arms 
upon the table, buries her face between 
them, her frame shaking with sobs. Hol- 
coMBE turnSj looks at her, slowly ad- 
vances. Suddenly she straightens, rushes 
at the bag, tears it open. Holcombe, 
quicker than she, snatches the deed, 
Anita. That's right — tear it up. I'll say I don't 
want the land sold. Tear it up. I love you — ^you'd 
hate me. 

[Holcombe looks at her strangely, laughs 
slightly in his cool, cynical way. Then 
he takes the bag, puts the deed in it. 
Holcombe. Hate you? Rubbish! 

[Closes the bag, sets it out of her reach. 
Then he looks at her, nods, smiles. 
Anita. [Breathlessly. 1 Vincent ! 
Holcombe. You win. So do I. Now, for that 
drink. 

[As she gases dazedly at him, he moves 
toward the door, with his habitual air of 
careless, complacent good nature. 



Curtain. 



THE END 



By DAVID GRAHAM PHILLIPS. 

The Second Generation. 

Illustrated. Cloth, $1.50. 

" The Second Generation " is a double-decked romance 
in one volume, telling the two love-stories of a young 
American and his sister, reared in luxury and suddenly left 
without means by their father, who felt that money was 
proving their ruination and disinherited them for their own 
sakes. Their struggle for life, love and happiness makes a 
powerful love-story of the middle West. 

*The book equals the best of the greaX storytellers of all 
time." — Cleveland Plain Dealer, 

"*The Second Generation,' by David Graham Phillips, is not 
only the most important novel of the new year, but it is one of the 
most important ones of a number of years past." 

— Philadelphia Inquirer. 

"A thoroughly American book is 'The Second Generation.* 
. . . The characters are drawn with force and discrimination." 

— St. Louis Globe Democrat. 

**Mr. Phillips* book is thoughtful, well conceived, admirably 
written and intensely interesting. The story 'works out' well, 
and though it is made to sustain the theory of the writer it does 
so in a very natural and stimulating manner. In the writing of the 
' problem novel ' Mr. Phillips has won a foremost place among our 
younger American authors." — Boston Herald. 

" • The Second Generation ' promises to become one of the nota- 
ble novels of the year. It will be read and discussed while a less 
vigorous novel will be forgotten within a week." 

^-Springfield Union. 

" David Graham Phillips has a way, a most clever and convinc- 
ing way, of cutting through the veneer of snobbishness and bringing 
real men and women to the surface. He strikes at shams, yet has 
a wholesome belief in the people behind them, and he forces them 
to justify his good opinions." — Kansas City Times. 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK 



BY THE AUTHOR OF ^^THE SECOND GENERATION/' 

Light Fingered Gentry. 

A Novel by David Graham Phillips. 
Illustrated. i2mo. Cloth, $1.50. 

You will hunt long and far before you find a redder- 
blooded novel than this. It is the latest by the gifted 
author of "The Second Generation/* The hero is a real 
man — a man's man — and that is the truest type of woman's 
man. He is a hard fighter, and he has a hard fight to save 
himself from disaster, from disgrace, and from losing Her. 
But she was worth the fight. 

The Baltimore News says : " An author never is more 
satisfying than when his latest book is his best — and this 
may be said sincerely of * Light Fingered Gentry.* The two 
important characters are unique — a divorced pair who meet 
later, after the woman has developed magnificently; and 
the romance which ensues gives the book a luminous sid^." 

" David Graham Phillips is the master American novel- 
ist of to-day." — Senator Albert J, Beveridge, 

" Mr. Phillips handles his big subject with a vigor and 
force that is convincing, and blends it so happily with the 
romance that he has produced a tale of absorbing interest 
second to none of the fiction of the year.'* 

—Pittsburgh Dispatch, 

" It is a good thing for any country to have such novels 
as Mr. Phillips writes find readers and listeners among its 
men and women." — Seattle Fost-Intelligencer, 

** The book is full of practical philosophy, which makes 
it worth careful reading, for the author has studied life 
carefully and his conclusions are those of the expert ana» 
lyst of motive and character." — San Francisco Chronicle. 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK, 



AN UNUSUAL NOVEL* 



Old Wives for New. 

By David Graham Phillips. i2mo. Cloth, 
$1.50. 

The title of Mr. Phillips* new novel is a daring 
one. The story itself is just as daring, but never- 
theless it rings true. It is a frank and faithful 
picture of married life as it exists to-day among the 
prosperous classes of this country. It is the story 
of a young couple who loved as others do, but 
whose love turns to indifference, and Mr. Phillips 
shows us why their married life was a failure. 

" Things about women which have never seen the light 
of day before." — St. Paul Pioneer Press. 

** Comes near being a second Balzac." 

— Los Angeles Times. 

"One of the most thoroughly interesting books that 
has been written in many a long month." 

— *S/. Louis Republic. 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK. 



**;• S- OF DALE'S'^ GREATEST NOVEL. 

In Cure of Her Soul. 

By Frederic Jesup Stimson ("J. S. of Dale"), 
author of " First Harvests " " King Noanett," 
" Guerndale/' etc. Illustrated by A. B. Wenzell. 
Cloth, $1.50. 

One of the big novels of the year — big in theme, 
big in treatment — big in its perspective of humanity 
— normal, sinning, repentant people of the kind that 
one meets in real life. Two young society people 
have a sudden love affair and marriage. Then works 
out a strange story of two temperaments widely 
diverse, two lives wholly apart, yet holding together 
to an end that can only bring peace and happiness. 
It is one of the most powerful arguments against the 
divorce court ever put into the form of fiction. 

"A novel which stands head and shoulders above its 
current fellows." — Providence Journal, 

" One of the most important novels of the year." — 
Springfield Union. 

**A valuable contribution to current fiction." — New 
York Sun. 

" A novel with a powerful motif. It presents a study 
of the social whirl of Greater New York; of a young 
Harvard graduate who loves twice; of a young wife, who, 
led apart from her mate by the gay maelstrom of the 
select, plunges into the estrangement with a butterfly 
flutter until she is abruptly halted and faced about ; of the 
doings and sayings that go to make the book what it is- — 
one of the best of the season." — Brooklyn Citizen. 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK. 



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